


A Good Man's Life

by Marzipan77



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Gen, Harry and Severus alliance, Hogwarts Fifth Year, No Romance, No Slash, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Redeemed Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-06-28 18:09:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 107,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzipan77/pseuds/Marzipan77
Summary: Severus Snape didn't know what was going on with Harry Potter. One minute he was having a seizure and spending the night in the Infirmary, and the next he was gone. Three weeks later, he witnesses the boy miraculously reappear and slay the Dark Lord. Now he's sitting in Albus Dumbledore's office listening to the boy claim that he's from the future and the Master of Death while Voldemort's corpse hovers beside them. Potter has changed and Severus finds himself landed with a boy who isn't the same irritating brat that he once knew.This was originally titled The Potion Master's Apprentice, written by Athy and abandoned, up for adoption. She has kindly allowed me to take her beautiful idea into my own hands to do with it as I will. It is still here on AO3 and you should go read it. I've used many of her words, her original concept, and then put my own twist on it. Thank you so much for letting me adopt your story.





	1. A Summons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Potion Master's Apprentice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/520402) by [Athy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athy/pseuds/Athy). 



> Thank you so much, Athy, for letting me adopt your story.
> 
> The title and tone of A Good Man's Life are inspired by this stanza of Wordsworth's 'Tinturn Abbey':
> 
> "These beauteous forms,  
> Through a long absence, have not been to me  
> As is a landscape to a blind man's eye;  
> But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din  
> Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,  
> In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,  
> Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;  
> And passing even into my purer mind  
> With tranquil restoration—feelings too  
> Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps,  
> As have no slight or trivial influence  
> On that best portion of a good man's life,  
> His little, nameless, unremembered, acts  
> Of kindness and of love."

Severus Snape slouched down in his favorite wingback chair in the small parlor of his private quarters. It had been a long day. Long, tense, and exhausting as were all days during the current state of affairs. Severus had never been under as much scrutiny as he was now – scrutiny from both sides of his divided life. Dumbledore's machinations were spinning wildly even as the loathsome Dolores Umbridge poked her pink snout into each and every aspect of Hogwarts on her Master's behalf. Not Fudge, of course. Umbridge answered to the Minister of Magic out of necessity only. The identity of Umbridge's true Master was easily discerned – one merely needed to listen and to watch.

It was still a few weeks until the Christmas holidays and Severus was exhausted. Both of his masks weighed heavily on him. He was Dumbledore's minion, tied irrevocably to the old wizard through guilt and remorse and duty, privy to the man's plots and plans – at least the ones the Headmaster was willing to share. He was also Voldemort's loyal snake, the viper in the center of this nest of children, using his potions to keep the specter alive. His head resting against the back of the chair, Severus pulled in a deep breath and then let a long heavy sigh escape. He lived among those he must fool every minute of the day, never allowing his mask to slip. Children who must see a dangerous dark wizard, their parents, both dark and light, who must continue to doubt him, and the ministry, filled with spies and moles who must never know he worked tirelessly to protect Potter and his Gryffindor friends. It was only in the privacy of his own rooms that he could let down some of his guard and breathe freely.

Last night there had been an Order meeting. Facing Lupin and Black was a challenge Severus always enjoyed, but leaving Hogwarts, knowing that the Umbridge woman remained – it had strained Severus' already thinning patience. The Order was meeting frequently now, with Black nearly feral in his insistence that something be done. Then there were the other meetings he was occasionally called to. He glanced down at the long black sleeve that barely muffled the Dark Mark's presence. When the cursed tattoo wasn't blazing with searing pain, it often buzzed, or warmed irritatingly against his skin, never allowing Severus to forget his youthful arrogance and stupidity. But no actual summons had called him away - fortunately or unfortunately – for over a week.

It was fortunate because Severus certainly did not want to spend any time in the Dark Lord's presence, nor with any of his other followers. It was always a tremendous gamble. Would this time be the time the Dark Lord breached Severus' Occluded mind and brought all of his secrets to light? The reanimated wizard was gaining strength, even with the less than perfect potions Snape had been feeding him. Gaining strength at the same time as he gained paranoia. Reasonably so, Severus nodded. Voldemort had been gone for fifteen years – presumed dead by many of his most faithful sycophants. Which of them could Voldemort really trust to leave their new lives, to endanger their families, to bow at his feet? Severus was not the only one who did not relish his renewed servitude.

It was unfortunate that he hadn't been summoned only because it left the Order more and more in the dark. He snorted. The Dark Lord told Severus very little of any true value, but what little information he did glean from the meetings was precious to the Order. And right now, the Order was in turmoil.

The Ministry was still stringently disavowing the Dark Lord's return, with Fudge doing everything in his power to hinder any reasonable efforts towards practical security. The other members of the Order believed the Minister simply incompetent, afraid for his position, dismissing the testimony of Crouch, Junior and Potter after that foolish TriWizard Tournament for the sake of appearing unconcerned and 'safe' in the eyes of the public. Severus wasn't convinced. The Imperious Curse had been used effectively on many wizards, almost all stronger of mind and heart that Cornelius Fudge.

The Order had members working shifts, hiding under charms and transfigurations, to guard the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, and they'd already had several close calls with getting caught by Ministry personnel.

But that wasn't really what had the Order in such a frenzy. No, they were panicked – and Black was beside himself - because one Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived-to-make-Severus'-life-a-living-hell, had gone missing.

It had been three weeks now and there was still no sign of him. The day before Potter had vanished, he had a sudden seizure in the middle of Transfigurations class, had passed out, and ended up in the Hospital Wing for the rest of the night with no explanation for what was wrong with him. Poison had been suspected. After Severus had used every test imaginable – and a few no one had ever tried before – to rule that out, it was assumed a curse had been sent Potter's way. If so, it was a curse that Dumbledore himself could not identify. Umbridge had suggested moving the boy to St. Mungo's in that sickly-sweet tone of hers, and Severus, Dumbledore, and McGonagall had been forced to devise distractions to keep the pink toad away from the child. It was clear that no matter what, allowing Potter away from their direct care put the boy's life in peril, and not just from the Dark Lord. 

The three, along with Poppy Pomfrey, had been resolved to keep a tight watch on the irritating brat to ensure the woman wouldn't take advantage of his vulnerable state.

Wards and vigilance had proved useless. A few hours after midnight, the boy had vanished completely. No one knew where he'd gone or how he'd left. Weasley and Granger, Potter's closest confidants, included. Severus had performed a subtle scan of both of their minds to make sure the bothersome Gryffindors were not hiding yet another ridiculous teen-aged plot. Weasley had revealed that, after a brief search of Potter's trunk, he'd found some items missing. Potter's money bag, his blasted invisibility cloak, and his broom had all vanished, which seemed to suggest that the boy had left of his own free will.

But how? Severus' jaw ached from clenching. How could an underage, painfully obvious child who stumbled into trouble on a daily basis manage to secrete himself away from Hogwarts with none the wiser? Dumbledore had the castle scoured from the tip of the Astronomy Tower to the lowest dungeon – even beneath to the Chamber that Potter had discovered during his second year. Lupin was forced to restrain Black physically in order to keep the man at Grimmauld Place – as if the idiot could hope to find Potter by haring off in every direction with absolutely no clue.

Severus wanted to suspect the Ministry. Or Umbridge. She seemed supremely smug that Potter had up and vanished. She had made statements to the press furthering the earlier claims that Potter was unstable and attention-seeking, et cetera, et cetera. However, if they had the boy they would surely have marched him in front of the Daily Prophet in order to remove all doubt that Potter's ramblings about Voldemort were pure childish lies.

As far as Severus could tell, the Dark Lord knew just as little as they did. He certainly wouldn't have been able to control his glee if he had stolen Potter away – or killed the boy outright. His unholy fury had not been feigned when Severus and the others continued unsuccessful at discovering Potter's location. Severus did not look forward to the next time he was summoned. He grimaced. No doubt, the Dark Lord's wrath would only be that much greater at the continued lack of progress.

The Dark Lord wanted the Prophecy – he wanted to hear the entire Prophecy. The Prophecy that Severus had revealed and that had led directly to the deaths of James and Lily Potter. Severus lunged from his seat and strode to the tall, narrow window beside his desk. Those memories always brought pain. Guilt. Grief. He never attempted to smother those feelings – he deserved them. Deserved every ache, every jolt of acid in his gut, every jagged tear in his spirit. Nothing he could do – nothing he had already accomplished to render Voldemort ineffectual, to hinder the psychopath's return – would make up for his betrayal of the woman he loved. So, while Severus did not look forward for the next time he was summoned and tortured by the Dark Lord, he took it as his just punishment.

Through the thick glass, the Black Lake roiled and churned. No glimmer of light found its way to this depth, but the passing of a school of grindylows or the swish of a merman's tail often disturbed the muck, revealing the bright green of a waterplant or the unexpected flash of silver from a stray spell. The Prophecy, Sybill Trelawney's single gift to the Wizarding World, lay – captured – behind glass in the Department of Mysteries, its secrets held in silent readiness for one hand to retrieve it. Potter's hand.

Voldemort wanted it. He wanted to possess it utterly and wring out every possible meaning. He had determined the best way to get it would be to lure Potter into the Department of Mysteries to get it for him. But he could hardly do that if Potter was missing.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. Trying to follow Voldemort's paranoid logic made his head ache. The Dark Lord believed that Potter was his nemesis – he'd always done so. He'd targeted a baby fourteen years ago because of that very prophecy. But the Dark Lord himself, at the peak of his power and abilities, standing before a wandless, powerless child in a crib had been unable to kill him. In fact, his Avada Kedavra had rebounded so effectively that it had unbodied the wizard, leaving behind a creeping slug forced to drain others' life forces to remain alive.

Newly risen but still far from his former power, Voldemort had latched onto the prophecy with frenetic obsession. He'd marked Potter as his nemesis once and could not conceive of a world where this mere boy bested him again and again. Severus shook his head. Somehow, the baby had lived. Somehow, the eleven-year-old had rid Voldemort of his cringing vessel, Quirrell, and denied him the Philosopher's Stone. A year later, the Potter child had killed Slytherin's basilisk and destroyed a remnant of Voldemort's psyche. 

Severus turned to his kitchen and set the kettle on the fire. That diary was still a mystery. Dark magic – the darkest – could split off a fragment of the wizard's soul and lodge it within an object. It was old, old magic. Something from tales and fantasies. It was not reasonable, not probable in today's more enlightened age. And yet, what other explanation was there for Potter's story? For young Miss Weasley's report?

A twelve-year-old boy who exhibited no mastery of any subject, who was capable of mediocre magic, at best, and who did not have the discipline of a spaniel pup had managed to summon the Sword of Gryffindor and eliminate a beast that no adult wizard had even believed existed. And then, the following year, he'd saved Sirius Black and revealed Voldemort's minion and the Potters' betrayer as the Animagus, Pettigrew.

Clearly, he'd had help. Dumbledore, the interfering old manipulator, had led the boy by the nose more than once. Lupin had spent hours with the child until he could produce a corporeal Patronus. But, still. Perhaps the Dark Lord was right in his paranoia. It was as if the universe conspired to guide Potter to exactly what he needed at precisely the right time. Quirrell. Lockhart. Lupin. Even Barty Crouch disguised as Moody were perfect examples. Friend or foe, each had prompted Potter into a situation where he might fall into Voldemort's hands. Where the Dark Lord might have his final victory – or fail to do so in a particularly spectacular fashion.

Last year had changed everything. Fame and glory, Severus snorted as he spooned tea leaves into his teapot. He should have suspected when Crouch arrived at Hogwarts with that blasted TriWizard Cup, mouthing nonsense about fame and glory. Those weren't Crouch's words, they sounded much more like something Lucius Malfoy would say. Malfoy and the other pureblood fools. Severus stared at the steam rising from his kettle as he placed his right hand over his left forearm. Fame and glory were the goal of every man or woman who hid behind a Death Eater mask, fed by the jealous insanity of their Dark Lord.

Dumbledore had never suspected Crouch. No one had. Crouch had been the Grand High Inquisitor during the first war, had gone after each potential criminal with every spell in his arsenal – including not a few curses that wizards and witches claiming to denounce the Dark Arts would not willingly touch. He'd sent Black off to Azkaban without a trial and had renounced his own son. Severus poured the water and set the lid back on his teapot, satisfied that his hands did not tremble from either anger or exhaustion. To find out all these years later that Crouch had allowed his dying wife to take their son's place in prison and then kept the boy under the Imperious Curse for twelve long years, well, if Severus hadn't heard it from Crouch Junior's own mouth under Veritaserum, he would never have believed the tale.

And now Crouch was dead. Crouch and Cedric Diggory, an innocent boy killed on a whim of the Dark Lord's. These were two facts that Cornelius Fudge should not be able to brush aside. And yet he had. How unfortunate, Severus sneered to himself, that the Dementors got to Crouch Junior before the Aurors could take his statement. How sad that the Crouch house elf, Winky, had been deemed too damaged to give proper testimony. And how revolting that Fudge had turned away from the only living witness to the scene of Voldemort's resurrection – the Boy-Who-Had-Lived-Again - but had returned broken and scarred, physically and emotionally, from his encounter. 

He slammed the teapot down on the table, cracking the handle and spewing scalding liquid all over the table, the floor, and his hand. In an instant, Severus had vanished the entire mess, his spell strengthened by his rage to include the tabletop and half of the armchair beside it. He flung himself back into his seat and stared at the blisters forming on his fingers. Fudge was a useless idiot. There had been public sightings. The Dark Mark had been raised over the Quidditch World Cup. Marauding Death Eaters had laid waste to the field. Two people were dead – one of those a child. And yet Fudge postured and denied the truth while Dumbledore grew quieter and quieter. 

Voldemort's supporters had been restless for years, sensing their Master's return, getting their affairs in order so that they could return to his side. Did Fudge think for a moment that Voldemort and his pet, Pettigrew, in hiding, alone, without enough power between them to start a fire could pull off the deception and cleverness needed to place Barty in Hogwarts under Dumbledore's nose? Who did Fudge believe wore the masks at the Quidditch Cup? How could Barty, a boy with his mind warped by Azkaban and over a decade of the Imperious Curse, possibly bring their plan to bear?

No. Severus knew they had help. And his money was on Malfoy.

A sharp, searing pain erupted on Severus' forearm. Its intensity stole his breath and started him out of his chair, all of his grim thoughts suspended. 

He was being summoned.

There was little time. Voldemort would accept no excuses, even though he understood that Severus could not Apparate within Hogwarts' wards. He stepped to the Floo, tossed in a handful of powder from the tin on the mantle and called out 'Headmaster's Office' and the password. As the fire turned green, he got down on his knees and leaned in. There was the usual brief disorientation before his head emerged on the other end.

“Albus!” he hissed urgently.

The elder wizard was, fortunately, sitting at his desk and quickly rushed over.

“What is it Severus?”

“I've been summoned. I must leave.”

Concern instantly flooded the headmaster's expression, but he nodded his head firmly. “Go, and be safe.”

Severus stood, summoned his cloak and mask and returned to the Floo, speaking precisely. "Hog's Head Inn, Aberforth's sitting room." He'd determined long ago that the journey from the school dungeons to the front gate and edge of the apparition wards was far too time-consuming and that this was simply a much faster option. Striding from the crooked stones of Aberforth's fireplace, Severus nodded towards Dumbledore's much more reticent brother, donned his mask, and pressed his wand to the Dark Mark upon his left forearm, allowing the magic within it to guide him to the Dark Lord. With a crack, he was gone.


	2. Unexpected Meetings

In a well-practiced motion, Severus was instantly down on one knee, his head bowed in submission to the monster he had been foolish enough to swear allegiance to in his youth.

“Stand, Severussss,” Voldemort hissed imperiously from his perch in a high-backed chair sitting atop a dais at the end of the meeting hall. 

Alone, then. Severus set his Occlumency shields to their most impenetrable and settled the aura of arrogant servant across his mind. Surely if Voldemort suspected him of betrayal, the Dark Lord would have surrounded himself with Death Eaters in order to witness Severus' torture and death. Perhaps this summons would be one of those rare occasions where Voldemort needed a comrade, an ear, someone to lament and grieve to about his disappointing servants and the dismal conditions in which he was forced to live. If Voldemort revealed secrets along with his whining, that might prove useful. Unfortunately, when it was just Severus and the Dark Lord, he was the only available target for the madman's curses if the evening should end as so many did.

"My Lord," Severus intoned as he stood.

“Something is amisss, my friend." Voldemort's robes rustled as he shifted on his makeshift throne. 

Severus raised his eyes. It was difficult to tell in that wasted, deformed face, but Voldemort appeared to be in pain, his hands trembling. The red eyes gleamed; dark, dangerous. This was a mood Severus did not welcome.

"Are you in pain, my Lord?" He took a step forward. "Should I summon a new potion?" He had left enough Nerve Regenerator and Pepper-Up to last the man a lifetime.

"No." The bone-white wand swished through the air. "It is not this body that pains me. It is … something else." He straightened, staring into Severus' eyes. "You must do a scan, Severus. A scan of my magical core. I trust no one else."

Odd. "Was there an error, Lord? An error in the spell itself or in Pettigrew's abysmal spellcasting?" He moved towards the seated figure, drawing the mask from his face and setting it on the long ebony table. Severus could only hope that Voldemort's resurrection had been botched by that idiot, Wormtail. 

"I begin to fear that is so, Severus. This feeling has been growing lately, not weakness, but a sense of dread. Of my faculties slipping away." His hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "Pettigrew was always weak, practically useless before that child's magic nearly destroyed me. Now?" He sighed and ran a long-fingered hand over his skull. "I would rather have had a trusted, intelligent follower return me to power."

"The fool didn't deserve the honor," Severus hissed, his jaw tight, his disgust at the thought of Wormtail forefront in his mind. No, Lily's betrayer deserved far worse than to lose a hand to the cauldron – and, someday, Severus would make sure he received it. He raised his wand, face impassive, and looked to Voldemort for permission to proceed.

The Dark Lord bowed his head.

His wand hovering over Voldemort's thin chest, Severus narrowed his eyes and muttered the incantation. Strange. The power was there, intact within his core. Power that churned and rolled, a chaotic mass of energy. It seemed to ill-fit the space, as if pieces of it had been struck away and then jammed back together. Was this a result of the Dark Lord's near death and resurrection or something else? Severus pursed his lips and drew his magic back, ending the spell. 

"Well? Don't quibble, Severus. What did you find?" Impatient as ever, Voldemort drew himself up to as regal a pose as his emaciated form allowed. 

"Nothing that tells me that you are not as strong as ever, my Lord," he answered with a slight bow. "I have no insight into these … difficulties … you speak of."

"Useless," Voldemort spat. He waved Severus off. "What news is there of Potter?" Voldemort asked sharply, changing the subject with an abrupt turn.

Severus stepped back gratefully, head raised. Avoiding eye-contact was a wasted effort. It would only lead to Voldemort's increased suspicion. It was unnecessary to mask the frustration – the anger - he felt at being unable to find a boisterous teen-aged boy's whereabouts. He met the Dark Lord's penetrating gaze.

“My Lord, I am afraid that –" Before Severus could speak another word, the door behind him flew open with a bang, wards shattered. Instinctively, he raised his wand, backing towards the great room's windows, unwilling to stand between one dangerous threat and another. 

What he saw emerging through the door made his jaw drop and his eyes widen in shock.

"Potter?"

“I understand you've been looking for me." Harry Potter strode into the room, wand raised confidently, striking what Severus recognized as an experienced dueler's pose. His back was straight, his green eyes narrow, fierce, under the usual mop of dark hair. This was the boy who had disappeared from the infirmary three weeks ago – and yet it wasn't. This – this young man was not trembling, filled with fear at the thought of facing the Dark Lord. This was a wizard brimming with anger, with righteous hate. With purpose.

Potter's gaze flicked about the room, taking in the long, dusty table at the near end, heavy chairs shoved in, the thick velvet curtains shielding the windows at Severus' back, and the thin rug before the stone steps leading to Voldemort's throne. He seemed to be measuring the room, searching for any hidden spaces where an enemy might hide, cataloging every detail while rarely taking his eyes off of the figure before him.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said, emphasizing each syllable as he rose from his chair. Beneath the cool exterior, Severus felt the wizard's shock, his blazing eyes alight with a mixture of rage and surprise. The Dark Lord stalked forward, an expression of growing interest spreading across his serpentine features. "What a surprise. How did you get in here?" His attempt at casual interest dissolved into a harsh and accusing tone.

Severus held his wand ready. This – this was unlooked-for. He knew – Dumbledore knew – that this confrontation must take place, but not now. Not when Potter was still a child, with nothing more deadly than a sharp Expelliarmus in his repertoire of spells. Severus drew himself up, readying himself for battle. He would not stand by and see the child destroyed by his own stupidity – if that meant Severus' own days of spying were over, so be it.

Potter faced his enemy. He did not preen. He did not smirk. There was no aura of James Potter's cocky arrogance surrounding him. 

"I walked through the front door," he stated calmly.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Is that so? And what of the guards?"

Potter shook his head. "There's no one left, Tom. No faithful dogs. No sadistic minions. The few who didn't fall have fled. You're alone here. Completely alone."

Severus heard a threat in those calm statements. A promise. Voldemort seemed to hear it as well. The man's small eyes widened in disbelief.

"Insolent brat! You dare?!" Voldemort hissed and pointed his wand at Potter, a beam of red light shooting towards Potter's chest. 

Severus jerked forward, intending to intercept the spell, his unspoken Protego darting out to stand between Potter and certain death. Voldemort's spell ripped it to shreds. 

The dark spell hurtled towards Potter, Voldemort's laughter rippling through the air behind it. Severus' hands clenched around his wand – useless, too late, always too late, his conscience spit at him. His breath caught in his chest he watched as Potter in that instant before his death, words of explanation and remorse tangling up in his mouth.

Potter, unaffected, swatted Voldemort's spell away with a pointed flick of his wand. The energy impacted with the stone walls and was snuffed out.

Voldemort stumbled forward, his mouth hanging open as his laughter died away. He gathered his robes around him, scouring Potter with a far more careful gaze than before. A discerning gaze.

As the Dark Lord scrutinized the young man, Potter glanced towards Severus, his left hand, wandless, gesturing.

Severus stiffened. The child – the boy – had performed nonverbal and wandless magic. The spell wrapped Severus in what felt like warm blankets, tight against his body, allowing him to remain standing but unmoving from neck to toes. Severus fought, trying to speak, to counter the unknown spell, to end the enchantment. He was powerless. All he could do was watch.

The Dark Lord began to circle, maintaining distance between himself and Potter while attempting to distract him. "Tell me, Potter, where have you been these last three weeks? I know there are those among Dumbledore's crowd who have been convinced I had you, but obviously I know that is not true."

The boy actually had the gall to smile before he answered. It was a sly smile, one worthy of a Slytherin, his eyes gleaming with dark accomplishment. It was not an expression that Severus honestly could say he'd ever seen on the boy's face. It died quickly, the boy's expression becoming hardened.

"I'm surprised you haven't figured it out," Potter answered. "It's been a bit of a whirlwind tour, actually. First, before leaving the school, I paid a visit to one particular room in Hogwarts. I know you're familiar with it. The elves call it the Come and Go Room. A room filled with... hidden things."

Severus frowned. The Room of Requirement. It was a Hogwarts' legend. Or, he realized as he witnessed the Dark Lord's hesitation at the news, perhaps not a legend after all. What meaning could this room have to Voldemort? 

"After that, I went back to Little Hangleton – although, I didn't visit the graveyard this time."

The graveyard. The graveyard where the Dark Lord had been resurrected just a few months ago. Why would the child return there? To the scene of Diggory's death and his own torture?

"Instead I visited a rundown little shack on the outskirts of town," Potter continued. "I also traveled to Gringotts and made a withdrawal," Potter added with a slight bow of his head. "The goblins didn't even notice. I have to admit, knowing how fierce goblin magic can be, I had expected that one to be harder to access than it was."

The Dark Lord had halted his circling and seemed frozen with dread. The Potter boy's list seemed to undo him, removing a layer of power and mystery with every word. Severus could only listen and attempt to find meaning in the boy's litany.

"I retrieved the locket – it wasn't where you'd left it, in that cave, so I didn't have to contend with the Infiri. Regulus Black betrayed you years ago and stole it. He left the task of destroying the locket to his house elf, and poor wretched Kreacher had no idea how to do it or what the thing would do to him, holding onto it for so long." Potter's eyes grew haunted. "So many years under its influence, well, look what the diary did to Ginny after only months."

The diary. Severus' mind snapped up the clue. The youngest Weasley had been in possession of a diary containing some splinter of energy from the Dark Lord. And had nearly lost her mind and her life because of it. Potter had found a locket with the same properties, it seemed. Possibly more items. What -

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!" Voldemort bellowed. In an instant, curses were flying through the air. Potter bent and twisted, using the chairs as barriers between them as Voldemort circled the table. Splinters flew, great hunks of the heavy wood breaking off to smash against walls or floor. As the two edged back around the table, Potter stood, facing the raging wizard with no barrier between them. 

Voldemort bared his teeth. His wand thrust, cut, hurled spells and hexes. Severus' throat clamped shut as he watched the surges of power aimed at Potter's heart. Still calm, still unafraid, the boy's wand danced, deflecting every shard of energy, absorbing each hex until it glowed with an eerie light. Curse after curse broke before Potter like an ocean's wave, leaving the boy standing. Untouched. 

With all of the energy in the air, Severus hadn't realized that Potter wasn't sending any spells back until the moment when Potter did attack. He swung his wand arm wide, deflecting an Incendio that should have burned his skin with acid into the throne at Voldemort's back. With a harsh hiss, smoke rose as the ornate chair melted, folding in on itself until it became a rotting pile of muck. As Voldemort watched, Potter thrust a shock-wave of raw power from the tip of his wand, sending the Dark Lord flying to land spread-eagle on the rug between table and throne, his wand clattering away on the stone floor.

Potter moved in, barely breathing hard, and plucked the wand from the floor, examining it with narrowed eyes. "So similar, and yet, so very different, aren't they? Aren't we?" The boy kept a sane distance from the Dark Lord, but the slant of his shoulders and the set of his mouth told Severus that the battle was all but over.

"Tell me something, Tom," Potter continued, his tone nearly sorrowful. "Where is Nagini?"

The Dark Lord struggled to rise up on his elbows, his gaze darting around the room as if he was expecting the snake to suddenly materialize out of thin air.

Severus flinched as the Dark Lord called out in the hissing tones of Parseltongue. The language had always grated on his nerves, its sibilant, smooth tones so very alien to the human ear. But, this time, the Dark Lord's speech was different; ugly, stammering. The wizard sounded terrified.

"She won't be coming," Potter said. "She's dead."

Fear moved into horror, and then back into fury, and the Dark Lord leapt to his feet, his hands curled in front of his chest, power crackling between his fingers. Wandless magic was not beyond Voldemort's skills. No matter what the idiot Potter boy thought, taking his wand would not stop the Dark Lord.

Potter didn't move. He didn't fling up a protection spell or seek cover. 

"Fool!" Severus tried to scream. "Arrogant bloody fool! Get away!" But his throat could only swallow, each sound trapped by Potter's spell. He'd always known the Potter arrogance would be the boy's undoing. 

Unaware of his danger, the boy continued to speak with quiet certainty. "How does it feel? How does it feel to know you're mortal again, just like the rest of us? How does it feel to stand on the threshold of death's gate and know that there is nothing to pull you back? Nothing to save you from that final step?"

Voldemort roared, gathering his power into a blazing corona that colored the air in the chamber a sickly green.

"You can't kill me, Tom. Death favors me, and you angered him by trying to defy him. Death does not approve of horcruxes, Tom Riddle. He does not approve at all," Potter said. 

Horcruxes. The word jolted through Severus, burning away his confusion. The oldest, darkest magic. Something from a storybook, he'd believed. What a fool he'd been. Stories – tales – they were merely sugarcoated truth. Voldemort had done it – he'd broken off his soul into chunks and hidden them away. No wonder he'd lived, survived as less than a man for so many years. If one living piece of his soul remained, he would never die.

"You're doomed you know." Potter did not raise his voice, he did not yell or scream or rant about his parents or Diggory. He spoke more like a teacher – detached and self-assured, but with absolutely no regret. "There is a world beyond this one, but you will never see it. You have too little of your soul left. Too little of that orphan boy, sitting alone, wondering where he got his power. Wondering why he was so very different from everyone else. Too little of the young man who went to Hogwarts and learned that there was more power within his reach than he could imagine. Too little of Tom Riddle. When you leave this world, there is nothing for you beyond. You will shrivel up and become memory and dust."

"You are the one who will die, Harry Potter! The Boy Who Died!" Voldemort shrieked, head thrown back, as he shoved his hands forward, sending a thick bolt of green energy towards Potter's chest.

He was too close. Too close to dodge or protect himself. Severus' mouth opened in a silent scream. 

The Dark Lord's power crashed into Potter's chest, the sickly green of Avada Kedavra announcing Potter's death. And Potter … stood still. Breathing. Unharmed. Alive.

"I told you," Potter said softly into the silence that followed. "Death favors me."

Potter raised Voldemort's wand in his left hand and aimed it at the panting, panicked wizard. Voldemort's red eyes dimmed, fading back towards a human grey as they widened and filled in with fear and horror. 

"I see no need to prolong this. To torture you. You'll see enough of that in time. Goodbye, Tom. Avada Kedavra." The same green light now emerged from the tip of the Dark Lord's wand and shot straight across the room, hitting Voldemort square in the chest. 

The Dark Lord crumpled to the ground. Dead.


	3. And Unanswered Questions

The room was silent for several dozen heartbeats, that, to Severus, felt like an eternity. Surely he was dreaming, for what had just transpired was simply impossible. A flight of fancy. Perhaps he'd fallen asleep in his armchair and would wake in the morning with a crick in his neck and only a vague memory of having one of the strangest and most irrational dreams in recent memory.

But then Potter heaved out a sigh of relief and twisted his neck until it made a popping sound.

"That's it, then," the boy muttered. "Thank Merlin."

Severus clenched his teeth and struggled to turn his head. The boy's spell fell to bits around him, leaving Severus trembling with adrenaline, his wand still raised, with no enemy to fight. 

"I don't suppose you have something convenient like an emergency portkey directly back to Dumbledore's office, do you?" Potter turned towards him, his face ashen, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

Severus nearly stammered in response but pulled himself together just in time to stop any moronic questions from leaving his lips. He shut away the unwanted – unneeded – emotions behind mental barriers and centered himself.

"No, I'm afraid not," he snapped, happy to hear a little of his usual tartness in the reply.

Potter nodded and crossed the room to the Dark Lord's corpse, Snape following. Lying bent, stricken of all of the fire and furor of his life, Voldemort appeared a stick-figure of a man. A thin doll made of bones and cloth. A puppet without the strings that animated him.

Potter was quiet. Restrained. He did not shout or scream or gloat over his enemy. Instead, he stared down at his hands, looking back and forth between the two wands he held before pocketing them both together. "Might as well," he murmured to himself. 

Severus watched as the boy removed a small draw-string pouch from his belt, pulled at the opening, and then stuck his arm down into it so far the opening of the bag was at his armpit. The bag obviously had an undetectable extension charm on it, because it was barely four inches deep; certainly not deep enough for the entirety of Potter's arm to fit inside it.

Potter withdrew his arm, but as far as Severus could tell, he held nothing. But then Potter draped the nothing over his arm and a sliver of his arm vanished. He re-secured the draw-string bag to his belt, unfurled the invisible-nothing and covered the Dark Lord's body, causing it to vanish.

"Your invisibility cloak." Severus narrowed his eyes at the boy. "Is this how you managed to leave Hogwarts?"

"That's part of it," Potter answered, hands on his hips. "It's a long story that I would like to only tell once, so why don't you give me a hand."

Severus wanted to refuse. To demand answers – all of the answers to the questions nearly drowning him. But to remain a moment longer in this place where Death Eaters, drawn by their Master's death, might soon arrive with their own demands did not seem to be a good idea.

"We're going to have to Apparate to the school's gate, right? Do you want to go walking along the path, and through the halls, with Voldemort's corpse floating on display behind us?"

"You're taking him to Hogwarts?"

"To Dumbledore," Potter said with a shrug. “It's best to start there, don't you think? Honestly, I wouldn't mind just burning it to ash right here and now, but with only you and me as witnesses, I'm sure there are those that would like something a bit more tangible to prove that he's actually dead.”

"And is he?" Severus had to ask. It seemed – too easy.

"Hmm?" Potter seemed distracted, still staring down at the empty floor where Voldemort's corpse was hidden. Or perhaps the final battle was catching up with the boy.

"Dead? Is he really dead this time?" Snape asked, a bit of desperation managing to leak into his tone.

Potter's expression softened a bit as he stood and faced him. "Yeah. He's dead, Severus."

" _Severus_?"

"Sorry," Potter's shoulders slumped and he rubbed at his forehead. "Professor."

"You mentioned a horcrux."

"They're gone. All of them."

"'All?'" Severus echoed in a horrified whisper. "The Dark Lord made more than one?" It was inconceivable.

Suddenly another thought pushed that horror aside and Severus needed to comment.

"He shot you with a killing curse," Severus accused. "Why aren't you dead?"

Potter huffed a laugh. He gestured towards the invisible corpse and tilted his head as if inviting Severus to act. Severus aimed his wand and cast Mobilicorpus on the body. 

"Well?" Severus prodded, once he felt his magic draw the invisible body close. 

Potter's gaze looked right through him. "All of the wards are down," he commented instead of answering. "They fell as soon as he died, so we can Apparate straight from here."

"Are you saying that you can Apparate?"

"Yeah, of course," Potter said, giving him a blank look. "But, as I'm currently underage I suppose I shouldn't."

The boy's words were meaningless. "And when, exactly, did you learn how to do that?"

Potter's stare remained blank, uncaring. "That's your question? When did I learn to Apparate? Not when did I learn to break wards or to protect myself or do wandless and nonverbal magic? Not when did I learn how to cast a killing curse?" A little of the boy's usual fire kindled behind his eyes. "You're not interested in how a fifteen-year-old boy suddenly learned to kill? To destroy the greatest Dark Wizard since Grindelwald?"

Severus blinked, thrown by the reality of what the boy had just pointed out. He had just cast – successfully cast – the foulest dark curse in existence. A spell that few could ever perform successfully, and most certainly never on their first try. Most who tried to cast it were lucky to cause a nose bleed in the victim. It was one of the reasons that the Dark Lord had been so feared. He could cast that spell as if it were no more difficult than shooting sparks from one's wand.

Snape shook himself from his shock as Potter reached for his own wand.

"Wait," Severus called out and Potter looked at him expectantly. It nearly made Severus flinch. Those green eyes that had taunted him for more than four years were now looking at him with simple curious anticipation, with not even the slightest hint of the hateful, distrustful glower the boy usually aimed at him.

"There is a better option," Severus said, stepping forward. "We will Apparate to Hogsmeade. From there we can Floo to Hogwarts. We have an ally there who has agreed to connect his Floo to my own and the headmaster's office. It's best we avoid any possible encounter with Umbridge. She tends to patrol the halls this time of night."

Potter's jaw tightened. "Umbridge. Of course," he murmured, his left hand drawing up into a fist held close to his side. "Good idea. Can you side-along me and the body at once? Or do you need to take two trips?"

"I am more than capable of handling it, Potter," Severus sneered.

Potter didn't seem to mind the tone. He stepped to the side of the invisible corpse and tugged the cloak up to reveal the Dark Lord's arm.

Severus frowned. How did he know where Severus' spell had moved the body? "How -" he began.

"I hope we can both agree that these questions are useless, Sever – uh, Professor." He grabbed hold of Voldemort's upper arm that he had exposed and offered his other hand to Severus. "I've got him. Lead the way."

Severus lifted his chin. He would absolutely never admit how grateful he was that he wasn't forced to touch the dead thing. He gripped Potter's wrist and apparated them back to Aberforth's sitting room.

"Well. Albie's not going to be expecting this."

Severus had already positioned himself to protect Aberforth from any instinctual reaction from Potter when he realized the boy stood relaxed beside him.

"Aberforth," Potter remarked with a nod, already turning towards the fireplace.

The grey-bearded man rose from his chair, pipe gripped between his teeth. Smoke ringing his face, his blue eyes were cold, piercing, as they looked Potter up and down before flicking to the only part of the Dark Lord visible, Potter's hand locked around it.

"Severus?"

"I promise to tell you the whole tale someday." Potter spoke before Severus could attempt an explanation. "But it will take a good deal of the Old Stunner Firewhiskey you keep for your special customers."

"How in blazes do you know about –"

Severus raised one weary hand. "Believe me," he enunciated clearly, "I have no idea. Allow us to … deliver our message and I will personally see to it that Potter answers all of our questions."

"Hmpf." Aberforth breathed more smoke into the room. "I suppose I've waited this long."

"Do you want to go first?" Potter asked. "I assume Dumbledore has a password we need to use to get into his office from here?"

"The password is ignis avis," Severus said.

For a moment Severus was sure he spied a grin on Potter's face. "Firebird? Brilliant." He gestured for Severus to go ahead. "Can you Floo with … that?"

"Indeed." Severus hesitated. "You will follow immediately." Perhaps he should make sure Potter went through first. He would not lose the boy now – he could not imagine the reaction to this tale without Potter's account.

"I will."

Severus eyed him suspiciously for a moment. He supposed he would trust the boy. It was the least he could do after what he'd just accomplished. His lip curled as he tugged the body closer to him, reluctantly gripping the upper arm where Potter had released it. Turning to the Floo, he tossed in a handful of powder. "Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts School, ignis avis!" He spoke loudly as he hauled Voldemort's body into the green flames.


	4. Harry Returns

It was a well-remembered voice that met Harry as he emerged from the Floo.

"You've found him, Severus!" Dumbledore, still rising from his chair, sounded both surprised and immensely relieved.

"Headmaster," Harry replied with a firm nod of his head before striding forward and coming to stand in front of Dumbledore's desk. He swallowed the crush of grief and anger that had always swamped him when he considered the man before him. Albus Dumbledore. Brilliant wizard. Manipulating, interfering old fool. Complicated genius. One of the bravest men Harry had met in his life – and he'd met more than a few. He'd known this moment was coming, but it didn't make it any easier.

Severus had stepped to one side, towing the corpse. His narrowed eyes were trained on Harry, some relief sparking in their depths as if he'd expected Harry to turn tail and run instead of following him from the Hog's Head.

"What has happened? Where have you been?" Dumbledore asked in a breathy, still-stunned voice. "We've been so worried."

Harry swayed, exhaustion and stress threatening to topple him. He'd gotten used to his fifteen-year-old body over the past three weeks – or he thought he had. Too skinny, drained by worry and self-doubt and a weight of responsibility and grief most grown men couldn't handle. He sent a silent Accio towards the nearest chair and sank into it when it nudged at his knees. He drew in a deep breath and met Dumbledore's concerned gaze. 

"I'm sorry to worry you," Harry began, "but I had little choice. And, to answer your question, I've been hunting horcruxes."

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed as he leaned across his desk. "Horcruxes, Harry? Where did you hear that term?" 

Harry held himself still. There was a threat here. If Dumbledore didn't believe him – if he failed to understand the truth, he might suspect that Harry had been subsumed, taken over by Voldemort's grip on his soul. The connection Voldemort had forged between them on Halloween night in Godric's Hollow all those years ago had grown stronger since the dark wizard's resurrection – and Dumbledore knew it.

"I destroyed them all, Headmaster. This one too," Harry stated, tapping his finger on his forehead, directly over the lightning bolt shaped scar.

Dumbledore drew back, his eyes widening.

"I removed it first, actually," Harry went on, still speaking with a calm assurance that he knew must look utterly alien on his teen-age face. "I had to. Voldemort might have realized something had changed, that I knew more than I should if he could have – for a moment – seen out of my eyes."

The same old suspicions surfaced in Harry's mind. The doubts that circled during dark, sleepless nights. The questions that had gone unanswered for decades, that he'd tried to let go of as the years passed. He might get those answers now. His lips thinned as he clenched his teeth. He must have them if he was to continue to interact with Dumbledore, with Severus, with the others that were lost before they'd revealed the plots and plans Harry had never been trusted with.

"I must admit, I wonder if you ever even tried to find a way to get rid of this," he tapped his forehead again, "without me having to die. It was formidable magic, yes, but for you?" He snorted and shook his head. "If you'd been determined to sever the link between me and Voldemort, if that had been your highest goal, I have no doubt you could have accomplished it. I have to ask – and, believe me, I've asked myself this question over and over again during the past thirty years - what was your goal?" Harry lowered his head, rubbing at his aching temples. "Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself." The statement jerked a laugh from deep within him. "Sorry, sorry. Here, let's start with these."

He pulled the draw-string pouch from his belt and reached inside. He placed the jewel-encrusted tiara on Dumbledore's desk. "Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem." A golden cup with two finely-wrought handles, engraved with a badger followed. "A cup enchanted by Helga Hufflepuff." The locket's chain tangled around his fingers. He shook it off, grimacing, letting it drop to lay with the others. He could barely bring himself to touch the thing. "A locket that belonged to Salazar Slytherin." He frowned down at the objects. "Those were the only founders' objects he managed to get his hands on. The school should have them now."

Harry tossed the torn, blood-and-water-stained diary to land among the others. "This was the first one, of course. I had no idea what made the book so powerful, why a simple book could draw out so much of Ginny's life, or how a ghost could threaten an entire school." He raised his eyes to lock with Dumbledore's. "How it could threaten you. But I suppose you did. My second year here, you knew. You realized why Voldemort hadn't died in Godric's Hollow. How he'd held onto life until my blood resurrected him. And what I'd have to do to ultimately destroy him."

Dumbledore's wand was in his hand before Harry had finished speaking. He pointed it at Harry's chest, standing and backing away from his desk in one swift movement. "Who are you? What have you done with Harry Potter?" His empty hand gestured towards Severus. "Where did you find him? How long did the Dark Lord have Harry in his power?"

Magic swirled within Harry, reaching out for his connection to Dumbledore's wand, the Elder Wand. It was tentative, hesitant, but it was there. Could Dumbledore hurt him with the wand that Harry had mastered in the future? Or, by killing Voldemort, had Harry sent time off onto another track entirely, one where he would never become the Master of Death.

The inherent paradoxes were mind numbing. Harry had been warned. He remained still in his chair, his gaze level, unwilling to flinch before Albus Dumbledore's power.

"Headmaster," Severus began, disrupting the tension. "I, too, have questions. This … boy knows spells and possesses skills and knowledge he cannot possibly have. But we must hear his story. And he does not appear to be threatening."

"Your wand," Dumbledore snapped, his stare never leaving Harry's face. "Lay it down here, on the desk or I will be forced to –"

"To what?" Harry demanded quietly. He shook his head. "I shouldn't have come. I should have let Sev – Professor Snape bring the corpse himself. Silly, really," Harry shook his head, "I was trying to protect him. I suppose I'll always be a Gryffindor at heart."

He slid his right hand into his pocket and drew out two wands, his and Voldemort's. 

At the sight of the pallid, white wand, Dumbledore struck.

"Expelliarmus!"

Harry's unspoken Protego flipped the curse to bounce harmlessly away. Instinct. He couldn't help but defend himself. Harry had not been promised protection from all curses, only from death. And only that from Voldemort's own hand. He moved purposefully but slowly and laid both wands on the headmaster's desk. 

"There. Better?" He couldn't help the note of disdain that crept into his voice. For the first time, he questioned himself. His decision to come here. To change things. He set his jaw. No, this was right. No matter the tedious consequences, the explanations he'd soon be forced to repeat again and again, it had been the right decision. Glancing up at these two men, alive and whole, remembering the others, so many others who were lost was enough. Gratitude rose up in him like a wave, closing his throat and sending tears to his eyes.

Dumbledore stood stiffly, his frown becoming one of concern as he noted the emotion displayed across Harry's face.

"Headmaster," Severus began, his gaze moving back and forth between the two, "perhaps this will answer a few questions."

He drew the Invisibility Cloak from Voldemort's corpse and let it fall to the floor. 

Before Harry's eyes, Dumbledore seemed to age. His skin, deeply creased, sank down towards his bones, pale and bloodless. The hand holding his wand trembled, the thick knuckles turning white as he gripped it. "Is that – how –" Twinkling blue eyes were filmed with moisture. "Severus?"

"I was summoned, as you know, to stand before the Dark Lord. He had some – concerns – about his magical core. About a sense of weakness and dread that had been coming over him." Severus' gaze flicked to the objects Harry had spread out on the desk. "I assume your collection of these objects had something to do with that."

Harry nodded. "Yes. Each time I unlatched a fragment of his soul from its place, he would have felt it."

"Those fragments were damaged," Severus murmured to himself, eyes hooded. "As I scanned him I saw that there was turmoil there, in his core. As if the pieces could not possibly fit together."

"I'm sure they couldn't. Not after the damage done to create the horcruxes in the first place." Harry gestured towards the diary. "A few shards of his soul were destroyed utterly."

Severus seemed to pull himself together, chin raised, the bland, unimpressed expression tucked down across his face. He swallowed. "How many were there?"

"Seven," Harry answered. "The diary was the first – when Tom Riddle killed Myrtle in the girls' washroom when he was at school here." He held up his left hand. "The ring – Marvolo Gaunt's ring which Tom took when he framed Morfin for the Riddle family's murders. The diadem. The cup. The locket."

"Nagini," Severus murmured. "You mentioned her in the Dark Lord's chamber."

Harry nodded. "I didn't have time to remove it safely. And I'm afraid the snake had been too compromised to survive without it. I killed her outside of Voldemort's chamber." He met Severus' dark stare. "The seventh was in me. When he killed my mother and the curse against me rebounded, another part of his soul broke away. The last part."

Severus held himself stiffly. "The Dark Lord became unhinged when he realized what Potter had done." He spoke to Dumbledore, the older wizard slowly lowering himself back into his chair, his eyes never leaving Harry's face. "Potter's hexes were very effective. More effective than many fully mature wizards twice – three times - his age."

"You have no idea," Harry murmured, rubbing furiously at his forehead again. At this rate he'd never be finished telling his tale. He wanted sleep. Whiskey, then sleep. A rare steak, good red wine, and then sleep. He straightened, shaking off the swirling thoughts that threatened to drag him down.

"Voldemort is dead," Dumbledore repeated, as if to convince himself. "You, Severus?"

"Potter cast the killing curse," Snape answered.

Dumbledore's eyes shot to Harry, horrified. "Harry, is this true?" he whispered.

Harry bent his head but said nothing. It was not the first time he'd cast the Unforgiveable Curse. Each time had been sanctioned, of course. Lips tight, he rubbed his right hand against his trousers in a habitual gesture as if he could wipe away the guilt. It didn't matter that the wizards he'd killed had been murderers themselves, that they'd done despicable things and would do worse if he hadn't stopped them. Voldemort had purposefully torn his soul to pieces each time he'd killed. Harry wondered if that was less than a scheme and more the inevitable effect of using that particular curse.

He'd been told his memories of his future life might fade – he desperately wished those memories would be the first to go.

"That is not all," Severus said, drawing the headmaster's attention back to him. "Before that, the Dark Lord cast a killing curse at Potter and he didn't bother to dodge or repel it. It hit him square in the chest and he didn't so much as flinch." Now Severus was pinning Harry down with an accusatory glare. "He made some ridiculous statement about being favored by death."

Dumbledore frowned, his expression an even mixture of bewilderment and fear. "Harry?"

Hands curled into fists in his lap, Harry lifted his chin. And so it begins, he reminded himself. "I'm not the same Harry Potter you think I am. Not that it really matters because I am still Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, born as the seventh month died and marked by Voldemort as his equal. Perhaps it didn't happen as you'd imagined it would, Headmaster, or as your careful plans had laid it out, but I did just fulfill the prophecy. Again."

Suspicion bloomed again on Dumbledore's face. "If you're not the Harry Potter we think you are, then who are you?"

"I'm Harry Potter, age 46. Returned from the future."


	5. Plots and Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your kudos, bookmarks, and comments!

"Impossible," Severus growled. The foolish child was out of his mind. Perhaps the Dark Lord's killing curse had affected the boy after all, destroying not his body, but his mind. 

"Is it as impossible as a boy of fifteen destroying Voldemort with one spell? Or surviving another Avada Kedavra without his mother's love to protect him?" Potter demanded. 

The boy's green gaze seemed to crystalize, freezing Severus in place.

"No time-turner could –" Dumbledore muttered.

"There are no more time-turners where I come from," the boy interrupted. "They were all destroyed in the Department of Mysteries, along with many of the prophecies stored there, mine included." Potter seemed burdened with that knowledge, weighed down with some ethereal cloak of grief or guilt. He raised his head with what looked like quite a bit of effort. "Yes, I know about the prophecy. I know exactly what's stored in the Department of Mysteries. In fact, I know you both quite well, including facts that you've told few people before. If that's what you need to hear for me to prove my story, I'll provide them. Stories about sisters," he stared at Dumbledore's stricken face, "and fathers," the boy turned to Severus. "Stories about regrets and horrible choices. But," the boy shook his head, the brightness of his green eyes fading, "I'd prefer that you listen. Simply listen."

"You foolish child, what have you done?" Severus snarled. The boy's words – his claims to know Severus inside and out triggered a wealth of emotions. Rage. Panic. The urge to run nearly overcame him – the urge to hex the child into silence following after. He forced himself to reason – to ignore the memories trying to overtake his control. Control was all that Severus had left. "Playing with temporal magic? Do you know the consequences? You arrogant brat!" 

Potter's gaze was level. "You thought so, once. Were convinced of my arrogance and over-confidence before you'd even met me. Before you knew more about me than that I was James Potter's son." The boy shrugged. "I won't argue with you. I would say that you came to see differently, before the end. And, honestly, I have grown a bit more cautious in my older years, but accidents still happen."

"Are you suggesting that you somehow came back in time accidently?" Severus bit out sarcastically.

"No, not quite." Potter shifted a bit self-consciously in his chair. "I died, but Death made me a deal and sent me back in time instead of taking me. But he really had very little choice in the matter, and in the end, it was to his benefit."

"And what exactly is that nonsense supposed to mean?"

"Severus." Dumbledore drew his robes around him, putting on an aura of patience and good will. His expression became fixed, eyebrows raised slightly, lips set in the beginnings of a smile. Severus recognized it. Dumbledore was Occluding. Severus took in a long, slow breath and raised his own Occlumency shields, tying his anger and dread into a knot and pressing it down behind. The old man nodded, hands flat on the desk in front of him, his wand within easy reach. "Harry, can you perhaps explain things from the beginning?"

Potter flicked a glance between them. Severus tilted his head. Had the boy noticed? Could he somehow see that he and Dumbledore were Occluding? No. Impossible. 

"In my original timeline the war lasted quite a bit longer. Part of that – a great part of it – was because you kept many things from me." The boy spoke evenly, without emotion, clearly addressing the headmaster. "The prophecy. The reason Voldemort couldn't die. Perhaps you were waiting for me to mature, to reach my majority so that my magic would be stronger. Or, perhaps you felt I needed to learn things on my own." Potter sat stiffly, hands in his lap, as if reciting answers to a test. "Most likely it was a combination of your absolute need to control me and your concern that, if I knew the truth too early, me, a loud Gryffindor with little self-control, that I'd blab your schemes and plans to anyone who would listen."

"You finally revealed the prophecy about me at the end of my fifth year. You had to. Voldemort lured me to the Ministry so that I could retrieve it for him. It seemed he'd only heard part of it from his spy all those years ago and wanted the entire message." Potter's gaze returned to Severus for a moment before darting away. "My friends and I, and others who followed, hoping to help, were attacked by Death Eaters. Malfoy. Crabbe. Dolhov. Avery. Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband. The prophecy shattered, and Sirius was killed." The child seemed to stare straight through Dumbledore, as if he could see this battle take place around him. "You arrived just as Voldemort turned up. Dueled him. Helped me expel him when he tried to possess me." Potter blinked, returning to the moment. "But, even then, you didn't tell me everything."

"I didn't hear the word 'horcrux' until halfway through sixth year, and, even then, you gave me only riddles and hints. You'd begun seeking them out yourself by then." Potter held up the ring on his left hand. "You found this one, first. Unfortunately, you were unaware that Voldemort had left a dark curse on the gold, not unlike the one on the necklace Draco Malfoy used to try to kill you in sixth year."

"That is ridiculous," Severus snapped. "You claim to be forty-six years old and yet you still harbor resentment and ill-will towards Draco – a boy you'd targeted since your first day at Hogwarts." He huffed. "Draco Malfoy could never begin to imagine killing Dumbledore. A child? This is a fool's tale! He would not target the headmaster any more than I would." 

"Interesting turn of phrase," Potter murmured. "While my complicated relationship with Draco is none of your business, I will say this: Dumbledore's death was not something Draco ever wanted. Pleasing his father – protecting his father and mother – yes, he would and did do everything, sacrificed everything, to do that. Giving you more details," Potter shook his head and waved one hand through the air as if to dispel scenarios that appeared before him, "would serve no purpose. It won't happen now. It can't."

"The gold on the ring was cursed – the curse attached itself to you immediately, Headmaster. Even with Professor Snape's help, you knew it was going to kill you. You had months of pain and debilitation before you, but you still didn't tell me about the horcruxes in any detail. You certainly never told me how to draw the slivers of Voldemort's soul from them or destroy them." Potter's hands tightened into white-knuckled fists. "And then you died," he spun to face Severus, "and you were sucked into becoming Voldemort's faithful minion full-time as he and his followers rose to fill the vacuum. And I was alone, on my own." He snapped a curse. "No wonder it took so long – so many lives, so much ruin – for me to succeed." His tone became accusing, angry. "As you so liked to point out in Potions' class, I didn't know anything."

Severus recoiled from the boy's desperate accusations. He knew many of Dumbledore's plans, but, clearly, not all of them. Horcruxes. He'd never have imagined that the Dark Lord had ripped his soul into pieces. Dumbledore, Black, Lupin, the rest of the Order, they'd all put their hope in this boy. Set a huge burden on his shoulders. And, Potter was right. He was a child, raised by Muggles. He knew nothing. They hadn't trained him, they hadn't trusted him with the knowledge that might have helped him. 

"It took me ages to find them and even longer to figure out how to destroy the blasted things. Ron and Hermione and I, I should say, three teenagers, running for their lives while they tried to put a few clues together. We did it – eventually. Destroyed them all." A smile flitted across Potter's face. "All except Nagini – Neville actually got her," he chuckled. "You should have seen him, Professor," Potter had turned to Severus again. "You would not have recognized Neville at the final battle. Tall, strong, a confident, powerful wizard. Not at all the stammering, pudgy, frightened boy in your first-year Potions' class."

"I shouldn't have been surprised," Potter sighed. "It could have been him. Voldemort could have easily targeted Neville instead of me. Sometimes I wonder," the boy's tone became wistful, sad, "if Neville would have done a better job. If he'd been more cautious, more accepting of help." Potter's eyes grew dim and distant. "He'd have made a better Boy Who Lived, I'm sure."

"Harry –" Dumbledore began.

Potter seemed to pull himself together. "Sorry. I promised myself I wouldn't give you more information than necessary, and yet I can't seem to help it. Let me continue." He cleared his throat. "You died from the cursed horcrux, Headmaster, and, in my sixth year. And, eventually, Voldemort targeted you, Severus."

His lip curled, but Severus did not rebuke the boy for using his first name.

"Then just as Severus lay dying, he gave me a memory. A memory of a conversation between the two of you. The Headmaster had told you to make sure I saw the memory right before the final battle. That memory informed me that I was a horcrux and that I would need to die before Voldemort could actually be killed. Again – I can't help but wonder if you ever considered an alternative. You, the greatest wizard of your age, Headmaster. The one who had defeated Grindelwald, the hope of the Light against Darkness, did not attempt to remove the torn shred of Voldemort's soul from my body." Potter was grim, his expression dark. "It was part of the plan, of course." The boy's careful enunciation reminded Severus of his own speech patterns. "You wanted that connection between us, Voldemort and me. You used it, just as you used Sev- Professor Snape. To get information. To try to figure out Voldemort's schemes. You're not very concerned about what becomes of your tools, Headmaster. Of Severus. Of me."

Dumbledore was a master of Occlumency. He did not show the slightest reaction to Potter's accusations. Severus however, sensed an echo beneath his own shields. A faint agreement rising from deep within him at Potter's conclusion.

The child continued. "At that point I received this for the first time." Again, Harry displayed his ring, this time holding it out across the desk so that Dumbledore could get a good look at the dull black stone. Recognition dawned across Dumbledore's face and his eyes widened.

"The Resurrection Stone."

"Yes," Potter answered. He pulled his hand back when Dumbledore made to reach across to take it. "Not only were Ron and Hermione and I forced to find the horcruxes, we also needed the Deathly Hallows, this time to make sure that I could die and also live, that I could become not only the Boy Who Lived and the Saviour of the Wizarding World, but also the Master of Death." The boy's pointed words made the titles, the capital letters, obvious. "Cloak, wand, and stone were mine, but, Merlin," a dark laugh bubbled from the boy's throat and he rubbed one hand through his hair, hiding his eyes, "I was seventeen years old and all I knew, all your memory told me was that, in order to win, to stop all the deaths and tortures, I had to walk out, alone, and give myself up so that Voldemort and his Death Eaters could kill me."

Silence grew in the Headmaster's office. A silence that blossomed from the quiet, intense figure that sat before the desk with his hands in his lap. The silence grew to fill the entire space from rafters to floor. Severus stared, his lips pursed, as he considered the boy's words. Was this Dumbledore's plan? Had he been readying Potter, a child, an irritating but innocent boy, to be led to the slaughter? To die at the right time so that others might live? Had Dumbledore raised the truest Gryffindor of all, one who would not only agree to fight, to fight long and hard and against horrible odds, but who would ultimately stop fighting? Who would lay down his life willingly?

Did Dumbledore believe that this child – _Lily's son_ – was born simply to die at the right time?

Rage filled Severus' chest. He gestured, and another chair drew up beside Potter's, angled so that he might see into the boy's eyes. He sat, gathering his robes around him, and leaned forward.

"Potter," Severus began, speaking as he would to the youngest Slytherin trusted to his care, "there should have been a better way."


	6. Severus

As Potter raised his head to focus on Severus' face, Severus believed, finally, that this was, indeed, a grown man inside the body of a child. The mind, the heart that looked out at him was not broken, it was not filled with a teen's rampant emotions. It was resolved. Accepting. At peace.

"Yes, there should have," Potter replied with a faint smile. "But that's what happened. And attempting to return to a younger self than this, to avoid the trials and terrors, to right all the wrongs, to save _everyone_ would have been impossible. Unending. I could go back to Godric's Hollow and save my parents. Or to Little Hangleton and make sure a handsome muggle boy never passed Merope's cottage. But," his face paled, "a baby couldn't have made any changes, could he? And Death would not consider placing me further back than my own lifeline. So." He sighed. "I did the best that I could do. It was really all I'd ever done."

Dumbledore now a distant concern, Severus linked his fingers together in his lap. "Tell me about the Deathly Hallows."

Harry snorted. "Didn't your mum ever read you the Tales of Beedle the Bard when you were a child?"

Severus remembered the story of the three Peverell brothers, every child raised with at least one magical parent had heard it. How the three brothers had sought to trick Death and how one had succeeded. "'A cloak. A wand. And a stone.'" Severus repeated. He turned to stare at the puddle of nothingness resting on the floor beneath Voldemort's body. "Your father's cloak."

"It was a rarity in the wizarding world, wasn't it?"

"Of course," Severus frowned. "I had heard of only one other and that was in Eastern Europe some centuries ago."

"But I was raised as a muggle," Potter reminded him. "For all I knew, invisibility cloaks were sold at Madame Malkin's and every wizard had one or two tucked away in his closet. When you gave it to me, Headmaster," Potter caught Dumbledore's eye, "I had no idea that it was so special. An heirloom from the Peverell side of the family. That it was the successful brother's cloak. He who had become the Master of Death."

Severus caught his breath as Dumbledore reached for his wand, touching it lightly with his fingertips.

"The Elder Wand?" Severus whispered. "Albus – your wand. The wand you won from Grindelwald."

"Yes, Severus. This is the Elder Wand. And it was from Grindelwald that I learned that children's stories were often written to hide great truths, to make it palatable for our minds to absorb them." Dumbledore bent his head towards Potter. "Must I fight you for my own wand's mastery, Harry? Is that what this has come to?"

"In my past, I became master of your wand through a convoluted maze of who had disarmed whom. It never felt right to me. I never did one spell with it, to tell you the truth. It was enough, though, once combined with the stone and the cloak to give me a chance against Voldemort. To survive his killing curse." Potter's head tilted and a dark gleam came into his eyes. "Not his other curses, mind you. Just that one. And, as I've said, I had no idea that my death wouldn't stick."

"But, to answer your question, no. I will not fight you for your wand. At this moment in my history, it is yours and not mine to take. After the war, after I began to understand what I had become, I had it buried with you in your tomb. But I don't think you'll ever be able to hurt me with it."

"I don't want to hurt you, Harry," Dumbledore insisted. The old man sat back in his chair, his tension relieved and his shields not quite as thick and tight as before. "I never wanted to hurt you. Your trials, your losses, the pains you and your friends suffered when you were so very young – I hope you don't blame me for all of them."

Potter straightened, hands on his knees. "I didn't come back here to blame you. To parcel out revenge and even out the house points counters between Harry Potter and the rest of the world. I came back to do one thing. To kill Voldemort before he could become powerful enough to bring his war to reality. I'd done my research and become quite a skilled wizard, far more powerful than a boy of seventeen. I had all the knowledge of my years in the wizarding world, at least for the moment. I knew about the horcruxes and knew where to find most of them. And I had the element of surprise." He lifted his hands. "It's done. I'm finished."

"But – you claim to be the Master of Death." Severus's mind was reeling. "Are you immortal?"

" _No_." Potter nearly shouted the word. "No. Immortality, living on when those you've loved fall away – I never wanted that."

Severus heard a wealth of loss and despair beneath Potter's words.

"Death and I arranged a bargain. He did not want me to become another Peverell, hidden from him, binding him to a bargain he could see no end to. This time when I died, he –"

"'This time?'" Severus interrupted. The tale was growing more tragic with every word from the boy's mouth.

Potter managed to raise a smile. "Maybe I'll publish my memoires someday and you can have a nice juicy read. I'll call it, "The Boy Who Lived and Lived and Lived and…"

"Spare me," Severus groaned. He'd have the truth from Potter – the entire truth. But, for now, there was a mouldering body hovering behind them and the world beyond these walls was eager for the news. "Perhaps an explanation of this 'bargain' would suffice for now."

"I died in a magical accident, alone in my lab." Potter shrugged. "There was nothing spectacular or note-worthy – just a moment of clumsiness. Death appeared, as he'd always done before. But this time, he offered me a choice. To go on as I had been, or to release him from my mastery and come back here to change things, to give some of those who died another chance."

Potter was holding something back. He wasn't quite lying, but there was more to the story, Severus was convinced of it. He murmured the incantation under his breath to send his consciousness into Potter's mind, to find out what the child was hiding. He felt himself slammed backwards, his head impacting the chair's high back as it rocked beneath him.

"Don't do that again." The boy wasn't angry, he did not rail or rave at Severus' audacity to try to Legilimize him. Dull green eyes narrowed, insistent, but unthreatening. Severus bent his head in agreement.

"Death agreed that, until Voldemort was dead, I couldn't die. After that, I would fit back into my fifteen-year-old world." He nodded at the Headmaster. "You would retain your wand and therefore I would no longer be Death's Master. I'm fairly sure that if either of you hit me with a killing curse now I'd keel over just like anyone else. I'm not immortal. Nor would I ever want to be," he added, shivering.

"Was this the only choice? Did Death offer you anything else?" Dumbledore leaned forward, his eyes glinting.

Potter stiffened. "That's none of your business. The truth of the matter is that, from Death's point of view, every one of the options he gave me were different circumstances that would remove me from my position as his master. But, out of all of them, this one was the most difficult to resist. I was sure that I could destroy Voldemort this time since I actually know now what I needed to know to do it. And I was right." 

Severus flinched as his attention was drawn back to the Dark Lord's body floating in the room with them.

"Ah... yes, it would appear you were right," Dumbledore agreed. "If I may ask, Harry, what do you intend to do now?"

The boy blinked, as if the question had no meaning. "I – I don't know," he replied. "I suppose it depends on the response of the Ministry to –" he gestured towards the body. "Probably disappear somewhere under a glamour or something. Set myself up to continue the research I'd been doing."

"You'd leave Hogwarts?" Dumbledore's eyes narrowed.

"I hardly belong here anymore, do I? I'm thirty years older than all my friends and I certainly don't need to attend classes. I can't imagine getting worked up about house points or who's snogging who. Wouldn't it be a bit, well, perverted to live in the boys' dormitory and take part in discussions about which witch is prettier?"

Potter rose. "I've done what I came here to do. Standing here, with the two of you alive and well," he smiled, "knowing that Teddy Tonks won't grow up an orphan. That Sirius will have time to heal from Azkaban. That the Weasleys won't be left mourning a son. Knowing that Voldemort never managed to break the Lestranges and other followers from prison and his reign of terror will never happen and hundreds of muggles and good wizards won't be tortured to death - it's, it's almost enough."

"The Dark Lord is dead. I left no trace of myself at Voldemort's manor. His wand," Potter nodded towards the dead white stick lying on Dumbledore's desk, "cast the killing curse. No one needs to know –"

"- the truth?" Dumbledore finished Potter's sentence. "I suppose that's true. But, while we have a moment of quiet before the storm that is surely coming, let's discuss your future. You have a long life ahead of you here, Harry. It's time to look beyond the end of the war, the end of Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort and decide on your own new beginning. Surely you did not make the decision to return here without thinking beyond your immediate goal."

Potter frowned. "Yes. I have plans. But Death warned me that the longer I lived in this world, in this body," he placed an open hand on his chest, "my future self would fade. My future memories soften into daydreams. To continue my work, I'd want to begin immediately."

"That was not well reasoned," Severus snapped. "If Harry Potter disappears at the same time the Dark Lord is vanquished, there will be no end to the uproar. As it is," he continued, "the search for you is all anyone can think of. If you do not show yourself, alive and well, to the masses, the search will never stop."

Potter crossed his arms over his chest. "I'd rather my name not be attached to Voldemort's downfall. Not this time."

Oh, that was intriguing, Severus thought to himself. There was an entire diatribe hidden beneath Potter's simple statement. "Didn't enjoy the spotlight? There must have been parades, boy. Thousands – millions of worshipping fans. Did you grow tired of being showered with gifts, of being a celebrity?" Severus watched each of his darts hit the mark in Potter's psyche. The boy didn't flinch, not physically, but Severus didn't miss the paleness of his skin or the way the muscles in his jaw jumped and flexed. "Aren't you anxious to relive your former glory? Or was that what tempted you to agree to Death's suggestion? Were the accolades wearing off after thirty years? Were you hoping to rekindle the eternal glory you were once promised?"

Potter turned on him, his wand flying to his hand from Dumbledore's desk. "I never wanted glory and I don't want it now. You, you who've lived your life behind a mask, Occluding your true self before friend and foe, should understand the horrible scrutiny of the masses. How they long for you to step one toe out of line, to smile at the wrong word, to refuse to react the way they assume you must. I don't want it – I never wanted it! My name will not be associated with the death of Lord Voldemort – I will not go through that again."

"Silence your foolish protests, boy. No one here believes them," Severus muttered.

Cold rage filled Potter's eyes and he snapped into a dueler's pose, flinging his cloak back over one shoulder as if he'd been doing it for, well, for thirty years. Severus was on his feet, his own wand ready in an eye-blink.

"Yes, there he is. I knew the Boy-Who-Couldn't-Control-Himself was in there somewhere. Now I believe it's really you, Potter," Severus spat. "You haven't changed a bit – still unable to absorb a few nasty truths without your emotions taking over." He let the tip of his wand draw a circle in the air. "You've undoubtedly been fantasizing about dueling me for years, being able, finally, to, what? Wipe the smirk from my face?" Severus pressed forward. "Go ahead, boy. You'll quickly find out who's the master here."

His wand steady, Potter lifted his chin and Severus felt a trickle of dread trace down his spine. Nonverbal, wandless magic. Confidence. Control. Power. He'd witnessed them all from the boy – the wizard - within the past hour. Severus refused to allow a drip of doubt to slip through his control even as he berated himself. Who was being the fool here? Who truly couldn't control himself?

Potter stepped backwards as if giving himself room to maneuver. "You should be wary of calling me a liar."

"'A liar?!' That is the least of what I've called you!" Severus laughed.

"No," Potter shook his head. "It is the worst. All of the rest have been true at one time or another in my life, I don't mind admitting it. But I have never been a liar."

Severus was stunned to stillness. Not by the words – he had heard the words before from Harry Potter. They've been shouted. Screamed. Snapped at him from lips tight with fear and fury. Never had they been stated so clearly, with deliberate, mature resolve.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Harry? Severus?"

"I require an apology."

Frowning, Severus opened his mouth to refuse, to put the child in his place. One did not apologize to irritating brats. And then he closed it, considering. He'd accepted Potter's story, had spoken to him as an equal. He'd seen the man behind a child's face. Would he speak to any other adult, any colleague or ally in such a way? Would he expect them to swallow his accusations without apology? Black, certainly. And his loyal dog, Lupin.

A chill broke over Severus' skin. The world was changing. It had changed. Barely an hour ago Harry Potter had thrown open the door of Voldemort's manor and defeated him. Nothing, absolutely nothing would be the same.

Perhaps it was time that Severus change as well.

"Granted." Severus lifted the tip of his wand towards the ceiling. "I apologize for my outburst."

Potter's wand echoed his motion. "Accepted." His posture lost its edge, the razor-sharp stiffness, and he lowered his hands to his sides. "I'd like to pretend that it's this fifteen-year-old body that's affecting my ability to control myself, but," he chuckled, "that would be a partial truth, at best. I apologize for drawing my wand, Severus."

" _'Severus,'_ " he replied, drawing his first name out in emphasis.

"A bargain, then," Potter held out one hand. "If you stop referring to me as 'boy' and 'child,' I will try very hard to call you Professor Snape."

It was a reasonable request, Severus admitted to himself. "It is not so easy to undo habits of thinking in an instant, bo- Potter."

"No, it isn't," Potter replied. "And since I've been thinking of you as Severus for much longer than you've known me, I think it's only fair." He tilted his head, eyebrows raised, as if daring Severus to leave his hand unclasped.

He took Potter's offered hand firmly, on guard against another attack. Potter's grin told him that he'd expected nothing less.


	7. A Different Harry

"If we may go on with our discussion, gentlemen?"

Harry dropped back into his chair, pocketing his wand. Severus – he supposed he should try to think of him as Snape, now – Snape doing the same.

Dumbledore seemed relieved to settle back into teacher-mode. 

"As you said, Harry, even if you are, mentally and experiencially, forty-six, you are still in the body of a fifteen-year-old. You are not of age, nor are you even legally qualified to retain a wand and use it outside of school. Even after you reach the age of seventeen, until you have taken and passed OWLs in a minimum of three subjects, you will not, legally, be allowed to keep a wand. That fact will not change, even if you travel extensively. You will still be required to fulfill your new home's local education and qualification requirements if you are going to be allowed to continue practicing magic."

Harry shook his head. Surely he could get around such requirements. Dumbledore had managed to get a fourteen-year-old into the TriWizard Tournament – allowing an advanced student to skip a few grades should be simple by comparison. "What are you getting at?" Dumbledore's mind was undoubtedly spinning out a new plan – the man couldn't help it.

"It seems to me that it would be wisest to stay here at Hogwarts – for this year, at least – and take your qualifying exams."

Harry pulled in a slow breath. "I know what you suggest is probably logical, but it would require spending the rest of this school year here and pretending to be bloody fifteen again." Harry let out another frustrated sigh and sat forward. How could he stay here, at the height of the furor over Voldemort's death, under the watchful eye of the press, the ministry, and every child who remained at the castle. "Even if my future memories are lost overnight, I certainly hope the discipline and maturity that I've developed would give me what would look to my friends like an overnight personality change."

"That can be easily explained by this." Dumbledore waved a hand at Voldemort's body. "Up until this point, your life has been focused on one thing – protection from and preparation for the Dark Lord's rising. When we reveal his death, Harry Potter will be free from the mantle of Saviour to become whoever he might be." Dumbledore edged forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. "In fact, remaining here might solve more problems than it hands us. Where else could the wizarding world be made aware of the changes in Harry Potter, the way his life has gone in a different direction? How his aims and goals have changed?"

Harry used every ounce of self-control and his vast Occluding skills to hide the tremor in his hands, the shaking at the very center of his being. This is why he'd returned. To kill Voldemort, yes, to save those people so dear to him, to forestall a war that would tear the wizarding world apart. But, to have a chance to begin again, to alter the direction of his life, as Dumbledore said, to be allowed a different pathway altogether – that was the real temptation. But to do so at the very focus of all of the changes to come - it would be a nightmare. Well, he told himself, he'd survived nightmares before.

He nodded. "I suppose, after this year, I could petition to take my NEWT exams at the Ministry early, so I wouldn't have to come back after that." With the announcement of Voldemort's death, everything would change. Some things slowly, agonizingly, pathetically slowly. But other things devastatingly quickly and without warning. The rigors and rules of student education might be the least of people's worries. But, he remembered, one thing must change now if he were to stay. Right now. His true emotions burst through the screen of his Occlumency, his voice cutting, "One thing would have to change immediately. Umbridge. No matter what happens at Hogwarts or at the Ministry because of this," he gestured towards the body, "she must go now."

Severus nodded. "Indeed."

"You are aware that she's using an illegal dark artifact to torture students during detentions, aren't you, Headmaster?"

"What?" Dumbledore gasped.

Harry met Severus' dark gaze. "You knew, didn't you? Why didn't you tell him?" Harry jerked his head towards Dumbledore.

Severus nodded. "I had no proof. She has not yet given detention to any Slytherins. I had a plan in place to make sure that would occur – and soon. Then I would have proof of her darkness and could proceed."

"No. It was Gryffindors she was after. Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, mostly. The two houses that would not immediately take action against her. One out of misplaced bravery and the other because they would fall back and rely on each other to get through it." Harry would not stand for the witch to harm anyone else. Friend or foe, Slytherin or Gryffindor, it didn't matter. He speared Dumbledore with a focused glare. "Umbridge is forcing students to write lines with a blood quill for detention. Hundreds of lines and for hours so that the obscene rubbish she has them writing ends up scarred into their flesh for life. Even at forty-six, I could still faintly see traces of the scar on the back of my hand from all the detentions she put me through when I was fifteen."

"Great Merlin... I didn't know," Dumbledore whispered, his normally twinkling-blue eyes darkening with anger.

"It will only get worse. I have no idea why you're permitting it, why you've chosen this ridiculous 'hands-off' policy and allowed Fudge and Umbridge to destroy Hogwarts, but it has to stop. You've permitted a vicious woman to take control of your school, Dumbledore." He slapped his hand flat on the arm of his chair, the loud crack making Dumbledore jump. "You've got more power than this. In my original timeline, she managed to run you out of the school, took over as headmistress, started using Veritaserum to question the students, and tried to cast Crucio on me during an interrogation. The woman is cruel and dangerous, and I cannot fathom what reasoning you would have for not taking action to get her the hell out of this school. She shouldn't be allowed anywhere near children!"

"Perhaps, Harry, if you would be willing to lodge a formal complaint with the Board of Governors and testify to her use of a blood quill on a minor, we might find some grounds on which to get her out –"

"'Find some grounds'? You can't be serious." Harry exclaimed. "You're Albus Bloody Dumbledore, head of the Wizengamot for Merlin's sake. You've been headmaster of this school for decades. Are you telling me that a single summer of slander and libel from one idiotic politician has stripped you of every bit of political pull you've acquired over the years? You need me to file a complaint in order to get her out? Do you honestly think me that naïve?" Harry snorted, his anger at Dumbledore's insistence on intrigue when a forthright approach would end the situation erupted. "Voldemort's dead. You don't have to hide anymore. Certainly not on my behalf."

Beside him, Severus huffed in amusement. The Potions teacher was eyeing Harry with critical interest, as if he could intentionally alter his assumptions about the 'boy' he thought he knew. Harry hoped he was learning some things about the headmaster as well.

Dumbledore, his mouth a tight line, remained silent for several long beats before folding his hands on the desk in front of him. "Very well. If I use my 'political pull' to charge Umbridge with her crimes, will you agree to remain here, at Hogwarts?"

"For this year? Yes. But," Harry added sharply, "I will expect your help. And, I will expect to be in charge of my own situation." He pointed at the headmaster. "You will no longer make decisions about me without my agreement. Anything concerning my schedule, my vault, my well-being, or my future will be decided by me. I'm not a child, regardless of the law concerning underage magic. Is that understood?"

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "I'll be honest. This will take some getting used to. All of this." He raised his arms and gestured as if to include the three of them, Voldemort's corpse, Hogwarts – the entire world. "And I believe we shall have to revisit this discussion many times in the upcoming weeks. Are you prepared to do that? And to include Severus in our discussions?"

Harry nodded. "I have no problem with Professor Snape. I know him to be a wise man who keeps his own counsel." The last scene of Severus' life burst in full color against Harry's memories. The Shrieking Shack. The snake. The bright red blood pulsing from his wound. The dark eyes finally unshadowed, open, allowing Harry to see the man's endless pain and thirst for redemption. "To his own detriment," Harry added. The man had loved Harry's mother and had never forgiven himself for betraying her. "I'd like to think we'd have become friends if things had happened differently."

"Friends." Severus' voice shook. Harry wondered if it was with amusement or disgust. The wizard had his arms folded awkwardly, each hand gripping the other forearm. "That seems – unlikely."

"I have many things I'd like to discuss with you. Later." Harry added. "After we've dealt with Tom." He jerked his head towards the corpse. Harry hoped Severus would listen. That he'd accept the olive branch that Harry was extending. Severus Snape had never been a good man, he'd never been a fair or compassionate man, but he deserved to know that Harry didn't hate him. And that he'd kept his promise to Harry's mother. He'd hated Harry before he'd even met him, made assumptions about his character and upbringing, and had not said one kind word to him while he was in school, but he'd protected Harry until the very end. 

"In fact," Harry added, hoping to sink his hook a bit more firmly, "I'd like your input on the potion I was working on when I died."

"You? A potion?" The sarcasm was thick and choking.

Chuckling, Harry shook his head. "It's going to be a long story." Long and difficult and disturbing. He hoped he'd have enough time before …before the world changed. Before Severus – and Harry – were caught up in the whirlwind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your bookmarks, kudos, and reviews make my day. Vacation is coming to an end, alas, so I will be posting three chapters instead of two next week. Thank you for your patience!


	8. Freedom

"Now." Dumbledore gazed over the top of his glasses at the floating body. "It is time to inform the Ministry – and others – of the good news. If you are being honest, Harry, about avoiding your name being associated with Voldemort's downfall, then may I suggest that Severus take credit for this? It seems the simplest answer. Perhaps we could even claim that Severus rescued you from Voldemort's clutches and –"

"I categorically refuse." Severus' gut roiled and churned at the idea. No, he would not be forced into the spotlight because it was the 'simplest' answer. He could not abide the kind of scrutiny he'd be subjected to if that story emerged – he imagined Skeeter and the others at the Prophet hounding his footsteps, following him through the streets, and camping out around the castle, eager for interviews. He shuddered. "It will raise far more questions than we want to answer and force us into long explanations that would never hold up. Not if I am the one constantly required to smile and bow and accept all of their accolades." He was sure the smile on his face would make a first-year soil himself.

"You have a remarkable ability to distract, Severus, to make others believe what you say."

The old fool's attempt at flattery dragged across Severus' skin like broken fingernails. He tightened his grip on his forearms, refusing the urge to pace and flail his arms to rid himself of the unwanted nerves that had descended on him. "I join Mister Potter in his loathing of the limelight as you well know. I would be willing to announce that I simply found him dead when I arrived. That another of his Death Eaters turned on him and then fled."

"The difficulty is this." Dumbledore steepled his fingers together, regarding Potter. "It is quite publicly known that Harry has been missing for the last three weeks. It's been the headline in the Daily Prophet. The Ministry is caught between fear for your welfare and repudiating you as an unstable runaway. If you return at the moment of Voldemort's death, well," he opened his hands, "the logical conclusion will be that Harry was abducted and fought – quite successfully – to free yourself."

Potter shifted restlessly. "Right. Since it's logical to assume that a fifteen-year-old boy would be capable of defeating someone like Voldemort."

“But you did,” Dumbledore pointed out with a grin and a twinkle in his eye.

"I'm hardly a fifteen-year-old. I can say without a shadow of a doubt that when I was fifteen, I definitely couldn't have done it. It was a matter of desperation, despair, and dumb luck that I managed it at seventeen."

Severus shivered, frowning. "You could place Voldemort's body in stasis so that it does not decay, allow Mister Potter to 'be found,' and then reveal the good news," he drawled the words, "when it has been established that none of us had the opportunity to kill him."

"I suppose that would be one solution." Dumbledore sighed. "Although his unexplained absence will make his followers frantic."

Severus glanced sidelong at Potter. The boy was staring at him, green eyes clouded with concern. Severus frowned at the – at Potter's obvious worry. "I do not mind causing a few panic attacks among the Dark Lord's followers."

"It may cause them to act precipitously, Severus. I'm not sure that would be in our best interests." 

Potter's head was shaking back and forth before Dumbledore had finished speaking. He had shifted in his chair, facing Severus directly, murmuring to himself. Severus felt sweat break out on his forehead as Potter's magic brushed against him. It felt like a diagnostic spell. "What do you think you are doing?" he demanded.

"We can't wait. Not now." Achingly familiar green eyes peered narrowly at Severus. "You're shivering. You can already feel it happening. I – I never expected it would happen this quickly."

"Explain yourself," Severus snapped.

Potter took in a deep breath as if steeling himself. "Voldemort's presence, his ties to his horcruxes and to his followers, his impact on the wizarding world reached farther than you can imagine."

"You forget yourself." Severus' throat was dry, the strange sensation that clawed its way across his skin growing more distracting with every second. "Albus and I were here at the end of Voldemort's first reign as Dark Lord. We lived through the upheaval the first time. Do not presume that, simply because you've returned from some future we have not seen that you came here with all knowledge and wisdom." Severus leaned in, threatening. "Foolish, arrogant. You really do believe yourself our Saviour, don't you?"

Unaffected by Severus' disdain, Potter spoke calmly. "At the end of the last war, Voldemort wasn't dead. Vanquished, yes. Weak, living as a ghoul that fed on others' lives, yes. But not dead. Then, his horcruxes were still whole, his soul maimed and torn, but present in this life, and, so, too, his power. Power that he'd cast far and wide, from England, to Europe, to the west, to Northern Africa and even Asia. Power that tied his followers together and drifted through places of power, that tempted good men - good, weak men - to do terrible things. Power that corrupted organizations that had begun with the best ideals and the purest motives, but, little by little, sank under the weight of evil. Power that set wizards at each other's throats over the smallest disagreement, that instilled a hatred of muggles and a distrust of magical creatures like giants and centaurs. Voldemort's darkness sent ripples throughout our world, changed it into a place where each man's anger and jealousy was ignited with a word and each man's compassion drowned by fear. Fear that _he_ would return. Fear that someone – something – out in the night waited to take it all away."

"You're already feeling it," Potter continued. "So am I." He closed his eyes, hands clenched tight in his lap. In a moment, his expression had cleared and he nodded. "Soon enough, whether or not we acknowledge it, the world will know that Voldemort is dead. Last time we were a bit … distracted. We were surrounded by death and destruction, the outward remnants of war, of a changed world and a new light dawning. This time," Potter raised his face as if to feel the sunlight, "this time there won't be a distraction. No burying of our loved ones. No rebuilding. No searches for those who had run away to hide. This time," he lowered his gaze to take in both Severus and Dumbledore, "we must do it right. We must be prepared."

Severus' eyes opened wide. He attacked the row of buttons on his tight sleeve, tearing the cloth away from his arm, exposing the Dark Mark he'd received with such devotion once upon a time. He yanked the cuff open up to his elbow, revealing the black stain that Voldemort had set there with his magic, a stain that reached clear through to his soul. Dumbledore rose to lean over his desk, staring.

The mark was not black anymore. Already, it had faded to grey, past the point it had lightened to before, after Lily's death, after Potter's magic had stricken the Dark Lord. The skull and the serpent had separated, a distinct line of unblemished skin between them. The snake twitched, Severus' arm itching fiercely. While they watched, it shrank from a great fanged beast to a viper, to a dark, flowing ribbon. The skull changed, filling in with flesh until it resembled a face that Severus had once known. A noble nose, high cheekbones, eyes that peered into one's soul. Tom Riddle's face looked back at Severus for an instant, faint and fading. No longer a monster, a figure of nightmares, evil dressed in dark robes. For a moment, Riddle's face looked out from Severus' arm with an expression of surprise, of fear. And then it was gone.

"Merlin," Dumbledore breathed. "Every Death Eater," he began.

"Yes. Severus has fought the Dark Lord for years, kept him from influencing his mind with Occlumency, so his connection was thin. But, if you don't want a dangerous panic on your hands, it's time to get in front of this. Time to make a very public statement, to have the body tested by Aurors, right here, at Hogwarts, where you control things, Headmaster. Voldemort was killed by his own wand and no test they perform will lead them to me. Don't take him to the ministry, take charge. Immediately." Potter nearly snarled. He pulled a creased parchment from his pocket and threw it on the desk to rest beside Voldemort's wand. "These are the names of Voldemort's Death Eaters. Those who were never reluctant to follow that madman's orders. I've also listed the places they are most likely to be found based on my future knowledge." He turned to Severus, his expression grim. "Find Malfoy first. Get him and his family to a secure place. Deal with him yourself, Severus, don't let the Aurors chase him."

"What – Malfoy? That -" Dumbledore stuttered.

"In fact," Potter ignored him. "Floo him from here. And lock down the Slytherin common room. It's still night here, correct? Curfew is in force?"

"For another few hours, until dawn, yes." Potter's sudden urgency compelled Severus to think swiftly.

"Harry, you cannot blame the entire House of Slytherin for –"

"Now who's acting the fool?" Potter cut Dumbledore off again. "The children won't be safe. Without Voldemort's power behind them as a threat to the other houses, there will be bloodshed, right here in the castle if you don't keep the Slytherins isolated from the others."

"He's right." Severus stood, his mind ticking off a list of tasks that could not wait. "We must act at once, Albus. No more cringing from Fudge and his stupidity. No more hiding." He straightened his spine, a feeling of lightness, of a great weight removed, making him feel ready to take on the world. "Potter, I apologize. We must begin at once."

"None necessary." The boy rose, brushing at his robes. "When you're finished with the Malfoys, with Slytherin, call Rita Skeeter. And Xenophilius Lovegood. Don't argue." He raised one hand to forestall Severus' instinctual reaction at such a ridiculous suggestion. "They can be your greatest allies right now, if you let them. Call all the teachers to stand with you at on the steps of Hogwarts, raise the Wizengamot and tell the world that Voldemort is dead. And be ready for the fall-out."

It was a strange sight. Fifteen-year-old Harry Potter had disappeared. In his place stood a wizard, his powers at their peak. The Potter who stood before the Headmaster's desk might be slight, slender, but he was a man, a stern, strong wizard, his expression daunting. Fingertips resting lightly on the desk between them, Potter took Dumbledore to task, the boy's – the wizard's – power a shimmering cloak hung about him. 

"Albus Dumbledore, you are the most powerful wizard of this age. Not just because of your magic, but because of your mind and your determination. Because of your choices. The people love you. They revere you far more than they do me. I'm a symbol. A reminder." Potter smiled. "People saw my scar and thought, a baby defeated Voldemort. There's hope for me, then. But, when people see you, they see power. They see a wizard. A man who could have become an echo of Voldemort or Grindelwald but chose to work with children, to devote himself to protecting the most vulnerable."

Power whipped around Potter's form as if he could barely keep it in check. Dumbledore rose, regarding the other wizard across his desk, his own power rising to meet Potter's. The hairs on Severus' arms lifted, his hair brushing backwards from his face.

"What you say, they will accept, no matter what Fudge mutters in the background," Potter continued. "You, you and Severus, must be the vanguard of a new order. One that is well-reasoned and compassionate and immediate, not a violent backlash against those who seemed to be our enemies. Do not shirk this duty. All these years you've spun your webs, setting pieces in place on the chessboard you shared with Tom Riddle. That game is over and a new one is beginning." Potter leaned in, more earnest, more insistent. "You can still be the chessmaster, but you will need to choose another knight. Different players and different strategies. And, this time, you must play in public, out where everyone can see you, shouting your moves to the heavens."

"My boy," Dumbledore began. He stopped himself, swallowing down the tears that glimmered behind his half-moon glasses. "You have left me a serious undertaking. Will you not join me? Join us before the world? No matter where you've come from, you did this. You defeated Voldemort once again. I – I'm sure, in your world, I never got a chance to tell you how proud I am of you. How much I wanted things to be different." He held out trembling hands to the other wizard. "Won't you stand beside us?" 

Potter took Dumbledore's hands, his expression sorrowful. "You did, actually. Finally, at the end, you managed to tell me. To explain things. I don't blame you, or, at least, I've been trying not to. But, I'm going. Now." He took a step backwards. "I'm going to take myself out of the picture. And, no, I'm not going to tell you where. I will return very shortly with an explanation for my absence that will be unimpeachable. I promise," he added, noticing, as Severus had, Dumbledore's disbelieving expression.

"Harry." Dumbledore held onto Potter's hands for a moment before he let them go. 

Potter turned immediately to Severus. "You're free," he whispered.

It was Severus' turn to blink away tears, to try to control the emotions rising up from behind the masks he'd worn for so very long. Strong hands on his arms held him through the worst of the tremors. Potter's smile was watery when he'd pulled himself together enough to notice.

"I'm sorry you'll have so short a time to appreciate the feeling. That you'll be thrown into the thick of things, but, Sev – Professor, only someone with your control will be able to do what needs to be done. The other Death Eaters will panic and lash out. The Order members will be tempted to step too far in reining them in." Potter's hands held tighter. "Save the Slytherin children, Severus. Save them from the angry mobs. From their families' poor choices. Save all that you can. I'll be in touch soon, I promise."

Throat clogged with emotion, Severus could only turn to watch as Potter moved to the Floo. He took a handful of powder and murmured something too low for Severus to hear before turning to look back over his shoulder. When he would have turned back without a word, Severus finally found his tongue.

"You promised me a story, Mister Potter. Shall I expect you?"

Potter smiled. "Later, then, Severus." He stepped into the green-tinted flames and disappeared.

Severus found he did not mind at all that Harry had used his first name.


	9. A New Dawn

Dumbledore put his wand to his throat once again and called for order. So far, the gathering the headmaster had arranged to announce Voldemort's downfall had alternated between serious questions and unadulterated - and very loud – cheers of joy. Reporters, Aurors, ministers, the heads of various magical organizations, and, as the hour wore on, many other wizards and witches pressed close in Hogwarts' large flagstone courtyard, the castle's stone soldiers and suits of armor providing security. The sun was just rising over the Black Lake, the chilled air of an early December dawn causing the crowd to move close, breath rising like smoke from a dragons' lair. 

Stragglers were hurrying from the school gates, the crack of Apparition nearly continuous now as more and more wizards and witches turned to Dumbledore for answers. To Hogwarts. Just as Harry Potter had envisioned.

Severus stood at Dumbledore's right, renewing the wards that he'd placed on the short stairway leading up to the school's entrance every few minutes. No one could get near them. No hex or spell could cross his barriers. Dumbledore's voice had been charmed to reach the farthest assembled ear; it was pouring from magical speakers within the Ministry of Magic and in Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley. All other wizarding schools of any renown across the world were receiving the news via Patronus and owl and Howler. The students had been summoned from their beds to the Great Hall to listen – all except the Slytherins who were listening in their Common Room. 

Behind Dumbledore, the Hogwarts Heads of House loomed as supporters and sentinels, their faces appropriately grim and no-nonsense. The other teachers were dealing with the students in the Great Hall - all but Umbridge, Severus reminded himself with the hint of a smile. He had taken care of that woman himself, charging into her private quarters, stripping her of her wand, and locking her into a full body-bind that resembled Potter's spell in the Dark Lord's manor as a warm blanket resembled thick, heavy chains that locked the witch to her bed and stole her voice. It had been … extremely satisfactory and would hold her in place until there was time to deal with her.

Standing straight and tall beside their Heads of House stood one student prefect. Granger had managed to silence her infernal questions – for the moment – and, although pale and trembling, put an excellent face on the proceedings. Anthony Goldstein of Ravenclaw, with his blond hair rumpled and standing up in all directions, resembled a startled chicken. Little Hannah Abbot looked about to faint, but Madam Sprout had wrapped her arm around the child's waist. Stiff and unmoving, Pansy Parkinson met no one's eyes. She'd volunteered to accompany Severus to the meeting. Draco, of course, was … not available.

After Harry disappeared, Dumbledore had first called the Aurors to his office. His words had been short, focused, to the point. Voldemort was dead, his Death Eaters must be rounded up before they could take hostages, flee, or react with violent, desperate panic. Shacklebolt had acted immediately, calling on Lupin and Black and other Order members to assist him. The list Potter had provided was received from Dumbledore's hand with no questions asked.

Skeeter had been, initially, quite sarcastic and disbelieving. Until she'd seen the mouldering corpse. Lovegood had been the very opposite, the odd man waving away all of Dumbledore's evidence as if it were unimportant. The two had their heads together in an alcove beside the teachers, quills racing along parchment, owls flying in and out of Severus' wards one after the other.

Fudge and his flock of toadies had appeared mere moments before Dumbledore collected the crowd, and now stood to Dumbledore's left. Based on Fudge's pallor and his inability to put two logical words together, Severus's suspicion that the man had been under the Imperious Curse was all but proven. Percy Weasley, meanwhile, had taken one look at Voldemort's body, thrown down his briefcase, torn off his tie, and hurried off to find his parents. Severus hoped the irritating, self-important idiot would grovel at their feet for a good long time.

"My friends," Dumbledore began again. "This is a day for rejoicing. For renewing friendships and welcoming a new dawn among wizard-kind. The age of fear and oppression has ended. For years we have lived suspecting every friend, every family member, every stranger on the street of wearing the Dark Mark. Of working for Voldemort. Of hiding dark secrets. It is time to throw open the doors of our minds and hearts and embrace the light. Join me, please, join us," he lifted his arms, "in re-creating a world in which muggles, half-bloods, and wizards can live freely, in harmony. We will need your help."

"What about the Death Eaters?"

"Where are Voldemort's followers? Have you captured them?"

"What does Fudge have to say for himself? For his lies?"

The crowd surged forward. Severus lifted his wand, but the wards held.

"And him! What about Snape? What does he have to say?"

_"What have you done with my children?"_

The crowd drew away from a short, dark-haired witch wearing velvet robes. Her question echoed from the stone parapets, its fear and yearning duplicating with every rebound. Her plain face was streaked with tears, her hair straggling from its hastily swept up bun. She stood at the edge of the wards, the toes of her boots shimmering where they touched the powerful spells. She didn’t seem to notice. Blue eyes stared at Severus, hands reaching out and then drawing back in pain as sparks flew when she touched his charms.

"You promised to care for them, to protect them! Where are my children, Severus Snape?"

"Madam Greengrass." Severus stepped forward. "Daphne and Astoria are safe, I promise you. No harm has come to them or to any other Slytherin student. For the moment, I've required that they remain in the Common Room where they will be cared for until this … turn of events … can be resolved." As with most of the Slytherin students' families, the Greengrasses had never had a connection to Voldemort. Severus had not heard one hint that the family agreed with the darker purebloods, not even those who repudiated Voldemort in public and, in private, wondered if the Dark Lord might be right.

"My dear," Dumbledore removed his wand from his throat and held out a hand to the woman. "Please, come and speak to your daughters. End your worry. I would not allow harm to come to any student, no matter their house."

The woman grasped Dumbledore's hand and stepped through the wards. She was trembling, glancing back and forth between Severus and the headmaster. Fearful. Shaking. Desperate.

"Miss Parkinson." Severus was pleased to see the girl move quickly to the frightened mother's side. "Floo to my study with Madam Greengrass. Use the fireplace just inside the entrance, please. It's been charmed to obey only my commands or the headmaster's. Then Floo-call the Common Room. Auror Tonks is stationed there in case of difficulty. She will help Daphne and Astoria meet their mother."

"Why are the Slytherins imprisoned?" A loud voice from the crowd was joined by others.

"Why aren't they in Azkaban?"

"They should be in prison!"

"They were all on his side!"

"No! They're children!"

Dumbledore lifted his wand, shooting sparks into the air that banged and smoked like muggle fireworks. "Silence!"

While the crowd muttered and shifted, Parkinson led Madam Greengrass behind the teachers and out of sight. Severus gathered Sprout, McGonagall, and Flitwick with a glance as Dumbledore began speaking.

"No children will be harmed at Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. No child will be judged for the choices of his or her parents or relatives. Classes will continue unaffected, beginning tomorrow. Parents may visit their children, as you have seen, however, each one may be questioned and investigated before being allowed within our wards. Our Heads of House are pledged to the welfare of their charges and they are taking that very, very seriously. Appeal to them with your questions and concerns, please."

"What about Potter?"

"Where's the Boy Who Lived?? Did he kill Voldemort?"

"Send out Harry Potter!"

Voices clamored for the boy, shouts overcoming even Dumbledore's Sonorus spell. In a moment, bodies crowded close to the wards, blue sparks rising from the front row. Severus swung his wand and bolstered the spells, sending out a ripple of force that pushed the crowd backward.

"As I have said," Dumbledore tried again, "Harry Potter is still missing. No one knows who launched the Killing Curse against Voldemort, but that spell did come from the Dark Lord's own wand. It would be foolish to believe a young boy would be capable of that Unforgiveable Curse and it is assumed that one of Voldemort's followers turned on him. Aurors are still looking for Harry, and we can only pray that he is found – alive and well – very soon."

Dumbledore stepped next to Fudge. "For now, the Ministry is asking that each wizard and witch employed there report to their posts. We will need everyone to remain calm, diligent, and professional while Harry is still missing and until all of the ties to Voldemort and his followers are untangled. The Aurors have already begun to make arrests. The investigation and eventual trials will take time to organize. Nothing, I repeat," he stated clearly, "nothing involving Death Eaters or other criminals will take place in secret. That much the Ministry has sworn, to me and to all of you. No secret trials, no secret agreements. The Wizengamot is in session as we speak within the halls of Hogwarts." He gestured towards the castle. "And here they will remain until all is resolved. You have my word on that as Supreme Mugwump."

Severus felt the tension in the air ease as the crowd began to disperse back towards the Apparition boundary. Many would follow the headmaster's commands. Unfortunately, many would not. Dumbledore was moving back within the castle, drawing Fudge and his closest cronies with him, eager to hear reports from the Aurors, from all of his trusted followers he'd set in motion this morning. 

"Was there no word, Severus?" Minerva McGonagall hurried to his side. "Nothing at all about Potter? Surely the boy had something to do with this? It was his destiny, was it not?"

"I cannot speak to destiny, Minerva. All I know is that the Dark Lord is dead and the boy is still missing."

She laid her hand on Severus' arm – on his bare arm where the Dark Mark had once been. He'd removed the long cuffs from his sleeves before the meeting, hoping to reassure ministers and Aurors that all further ties to the Dark Lord had vanished.

"Where could he be?" The older woman was distraught, her strong voice quivering. "I've begun to believe the worst. The very worst, Severus." Tears started in Minerva's eyes. "Even now when the dark cloud has been lifted."

"Minerva." Severus laid his hand atop hers, pressing tightly. "We will find him. Soon. I believe that." Potter had better figure out a way to return to the castle soon – Minerva and the others could not continue like this.

"Sir." Granger was frowning, pointing towards the path that led down to Hagrid's Hut and the Forbidden Forest. "Something is going on over there."

A dozen or so witches and wizards had backed away from the entrance, wands pointed towards the ground. Some kind of animal was just reaching the courtyard. Something large, with tufted ears.  
"What is that animal doing within the school wards?" Minerva muttered, hurrying towards the frightened wizards. "Nothing that large should be able to get this close to the castle." She clucked her tongue. "If Hagrid has been importing exotics again without permission I will give him a hiding he won't soon forget."

"Surely not," Severus replied, frowning. "He knew he would be … traveling this term. Unable to care for it."

Granger appeared at his side. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time Hagrid didn't act with the best foresight. Maybe it's hungry?"

"And come to eat us all? I find it unlikely a wild creature would approach such a large group of wizards. Especially something in the cat family." Minerva was shaking her head, gesturing for the group clustered hear the path to back away.

Suspicion bloomed in Severus' mind. "No. A wild animal would not." He closed the distance with long strides.

"It's a lynx!" Granger exclaimed as they neared the beast. "I saw one at the zoo once with my parents, you can tell by the tufted ears and the large paws, but they're nocturnal so finding one during the day and around so many people is very strange. What is a lynx doing at Hogwarts, or in this country for that matter?" Granger prattled on with more information than anyone in his right mind would want or need. "Even if it lived in the Forbidden Forest it shouldn't seek out people."

"No, no. Lower your wands, please." Minerva instructed the group of wizards, impatience overriding her earlier emotions. "Professor Snape and I will take care of this. Yes, yes, it's all very strange, please give the animal some room."

The beast in question was crouching, its long legs pulled against its thin body. Its fur was thick and full, dun colored and spotted, but dirty and matted in places, the left hindquarter full of burrs. The large head swung towards Severus and Granger, the green eyes seeming to hold a hint of recognition. A strange sound erupted from the cat, half bark, half growl. It seemed to scare the cat as much as it did the people still lingering to watch.

Minerva jerked to a halt and then reached back towards Severus. "This – this isn't a wild animal. Severus – Severus, I think this is a student!"


	10. No Longer a Saviour

Granger rushed forward past Severus' outstretched hand. "Harry?"

"Miss Granger!" Minerva sent a puff of air from her wand to knock the girl sideways and away from the large cat. "We do not rush towards a frightened, potentially dangerous animal! Just what has that huge oaf been teaching you in Care of Magical Creatures class?"

The cat followed the action with a dull, listless gaze. It focused on Granger and took a hesitant step towards the girl before Minerva interposed herself between them. Her wand drew the animal's attention and it cocked its head, blinking slowly, as Minerva sent a diagnostic charm towards it. It raised its head, sniffing the air. 

"Definitely a child," Minerva announced with a certain head-nod. "A child playing with magic far beyond his years. Animagus magic."

"Well, we all know who that sounds like, don't we?" Severus drawled, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Are there any other students missing, Severus? Any Slytherins unaccounted for."

"Hardly. And none of my students would be so idiotic as to attempt the Animagus transformation unaided." He snorted. "It's clearly a Gryffindor. In fact, I'd say it is undoubtedly THE Gryffindor, wouldn't you?"

"It's Harry. And he's an Animagus." 

Granger was nearly vibrating - with excitement or strain, Severus couldn't tell. 

"That's amazing!" The girl continued. "He must have gotten stuck – I've heard that can happen. But, why didn't you tell me, Harry? I could have helped." 

Severus rolled his eyes at the incessant noise. "We should move him into the castle – away from prying eyes." The wizards and witches were muttering together, more coming to join them every second.

"Yes. Allow me to calm him, Severus, and then you may stun him and we'll take him up to my office. The first transformation can be extremely difficult and upsetting."

He nodded and readied his wand. A moment later there were two cats in the courtyard, Minerva's tabby prowling towards the much larger feline. The transformation seemed to startle the lynx and it sat back abruptly on its haunches. Minerva approached, purring, to rub her head against the large cat's chest. She set one paw on the animal's shoulder and the lynx lowered its head to touch noses, to sniff her fur. It wasn't long before the lynx was lying on its stomach, chin on the ground and eyes closed, a deep sigh echoing from its chest. Minerva moved away and glanced up at Severus.

"Stupefy. Mobilicorpus." The unconscious animal rose into the air to hover at Severus' side. He swallowed a sudden bloom of fear – this felt much too similar to his towing Voldemort's body back to the castle. Severus placed one hand on the thick fur, relieved that the cat's breathing was even and deep.

"He's exhausted." Minerva, not a hair out of place, moved to his side. "Yes, it's Potter," she added under her breath. "Foolish child." She couldn't quite stifle the hint of pride in her voice.

"This is magic far beyond the reach of a fifth-year," Severus murmured.

"Not necessarily," Minerva began. "James and Sirius managed it in fifth year and we know that the Animagus ability runs through some family lines." She thought for a moment. "You don't think Sirius was encouraging him? Suggesting readings or helping him with the meditations?" She turned to Granger who was trailing along behind them. "I take it this new ability of Harry's is a surprise to you?"

"Yes, Professor. Although Harry has been a bit, well, quiet this term. Cedric's death really affected him, you know. And," she glanced at each of them and seemed to make up her mind about something, "with Umbridge and everything, he's been feeling very alone. Like he has to take it all, all the pain and loss, and deal with it without any help, especially since Professor Dumbledore is ignoring him. Refusing to speak with him. Harry's got a lot on his shoulders." The girl twisted her hands together. "I don't think I've been helping all that much."

"Are you referring to the secret Defense Club you and the other students have begun?" Severus asked. "The one Potter is leading?"

The girl's mouth dropped open. "I – I don't know what you mean, Professor Snape."

He snorted. "Surely the time has passed for secrecy?"

Granger glanced around at the milling wizards still in the courtyard, the shadowed entranceway flanked by the castle's statues, Skeeter and Lovegood now having been joined by several other reporters and photographers all staring in their direction. "I don't know," she finally answered, her chin lifted high. "I'll need to talk to some of the others – to some of my friends – before –" She shook her head. "Voldemort is dead, really dead. I – it's going to take a little time to sink in, I think."

"For all of us, Miss Granger," Severus bowed his head. He appreciated that the girl was considering all of the likely ramifications of this new world she'd woken up to. "For now, you should rejoin your House in the Great Hall. I'm sure some of them have questions."

She frowned, staring at the lynx's unconscious form hovering in the air. "But –"

Minerva placed a hand on Granger's shoulder. "After you have all returned to Gryffindor Tower, you may tell your house that Harry has returned and will be fine. And that is all the information we have right now."

"I guess Dumbledore was wrong." Her voice was shaking. "If Harry was wandering in the Forbidden Forest as a lynx, he couldn't have had anything to do with killing Voldemort, could he?"

"Apparently not," Severus added. "It is as we suspected – the Dark Lord was killed by one of his Death Eaters."

"I shouldn't be disappointed," the girl whispered, tears in her eyes. "It didn't ever seem fair that it was all up to Harry. That, somehow, a boy should have to live his life with only one goal in mind. Saving the world. Killing someone." She dashed away the tears that fell freely. "I should be glad it wasn't up to him, not, not –"

Severus stepped close to the weeping child. "This has taken us all by surprise, Miss Granger. I find myself at something of a loss." It was no more than the truth. Potter's journey back in time had upset the balance Severus had based his life on. Had torn all of his - Dumbledore's, the Order's - plots and plans to ruin. "It will take some time to see the situation with any clarity. Do not blame yourself for what are, very likely, some very confused emotions."

Minerva had a slight smile on her face. "I couldn't have said it better myself. Now, please, child, go in with the others."

"You'll call – you'll let us know, please, how Harry is doing?"

"We will," Severus promised. "But I'm sure you understand that there is much to be done."

"Of course," She swallowed, nodding urgently. "I just – I just don't want him to fall through the cracks. Now that he's not, he's not." Her lips tightened. "Now that he's not so important to everyone."

"Every student at Hogwarts is important to us," Severus replied. "This situation has not changed that in the least. I promise you."

"Right. Thank you." 

She didn't believe him, of course. Potter had been the sole focus and concern of the entire wizarding world, not just Hogwarts, since James and Lily's death. He watched the girl pull herself together, dry her face, and gather her courage. She took one more look at the sleeping animal, turned, and headed into the Great Hall.

As Minerva threw a handful of Floo powder into the newly enchanted fireplace inside the castle's entrance, Severus considered the young witch's words. 'Falling through the cracks,' might be exactly what Potter was counting on.

The animal tolerated the journey through the Floo well enough, a few rumbling growls and twitches saw it lying comfortably on the couch in Minerva's office. 

"What was he thinking," Minerva murmured.

Severus' mind spun out possible explanations for a fifteen-year-old to attempt magic not only highly restricted but also extremely dangerous. "He's Harry Potter," he finally stated.

Minerva whirled, her eyes ablaze with anger and concern. "Don't you start, Severus. From the first day you set eyes on the child during the Sorting Ceremony, you have acted abominably towards the boy. And do not think to excuse yourself because of the need to appear horrible to make Voldemort believe in your loyalty." The older woman seethed. "You'd have done better to approach the child as a sycophant, a secret ally, offering him dark magics to protect him and lure him to the Dark Lord's side. Now that would have been convincing." She threw her arms to the sides. "Instead you only made yourself look petty and cruel and vindictive towards a little boy of eleven."

He drew himself up. "Minerva – the boy -"

"No. I mean it." Her pointing finger was inches from his face. "I know what you see when you look at him – who you see. I was his teacher and his Head of House and I well remember the enmity between you and James. He could act impulsively, without the tiniest spark of thought," she held her fingers together, "and he was punished for it, if you will recall. He was an idiot – as most boys are at that age – and you took the brunt of it because of his jealousy at your friendship with Lily."

Minerva's voice was shaking. "There are not enough apologies in the world to make up for your treatment of Harry Potter. For the way you undercut his confidence. Singled him out for ridicule. Helped Mister Malfoy and his cohorts do everything in their power to make his days at Hogwarts, the only true home he'd ever had, into misery." She grimaced and waved one hand between them as if he had spoken to defend himself. "Yes, yes, you worked to protect him from Quirrell, rushed off to the Whomping Willow after him and his friends, continued to play spy for the Order, but you cannot think to excuse each and every moment Harry lived in the shadow of your hatred and condescension because of work you did in secret."

The older woman had aimed her shafts well. Severus was pierced straight through, to the deep well of grief and guilt that Lily's name always evoked. Severus felt himself a boy again, standing in the Great Hall, awaiting the judgment of Dumbledore and McGonagall, rage and self-loathing roaring up at him from his inner being.

He could lash out at the woman. Remind her of the wounds he'd taken since becoming Dumbledore's tool. The physical and mental stress of taking on his secret life. But, ultimately, she was right. Severus was an adult – he'd made his own choices. He'd chosen to take the Dark Mark out of jealousy and bitterness. He'd chosen to serve the monster who killed Lily. And he'd chosen to see an arrogant, entitled brat in James Potter's son.

He had only one response. "When I said, 'Harry Potter,'" he began quietly, "I simply meant that, only a child who believed he had no other choice would dare this magic. Only a child who sought to gain as much power as he could as fast as he could would attempt an Animagus transformation alone. Only a child who truly thought that there was no one to help him, no adult who would listen to him, hear his explanations and take the time to assist him. A child who had no regard for his own safety, who had been taught to trust no one. One who was desperate to fulfill the role each and every adult around him convinced him was his and his alone." He stepped in close, startling the witch, and took her arms in his hands. "Minerva, only Harry Potter, the child who had witnessed the Dark Lord's return, who had been taunted and tortured by the monster, who had no hope to overcome him alone, would attempt such a thing."

Minerva regarded him through narrowed eyes, her anger not easily deterred. "You sound as if you mean that."

Severus thought back to Potter's words in Dumbledore's office. To horcruxes and Deathly Hallows. Three teenagers on the run from powerful dark wizards. A boy without any answers, desperately trying to survive, to do the impossible. He imagined a youth walking out, alone, to meet Voldemort and his followers, knowing that he would die. "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kudos, bookmarks, and comments. It is fantastic to interact with other HP fans.


	11. Hard Truths

The odd grey and black vision of the lynx greeted Harry as he awoke from Severus' spell. He lifted his head from the couch and blinked, the shifting thoughts and memories restless and unsettled within his mind. The cat's brain was not built for logical thinking, but, over the years, Harry had gotten used to the subtlety of being in his Animagus form. Of knowing when to allow the cat its freedom and when – and how – to summon his wizard mind and take control. It was a shame he'd have to change back so soon – a few days of stalking in the Forbidden Forest would do him good. He peered up at Minerva's concerned expression and chuffed. He was unlikely to get that opportunity soon.

He stretched, front paws flat and back end high in the air. Then he sat and waited for his lecture. Whether Minerva would attempt to talk him back through the animal-to-human transformation before or after she gave him a tongue-lashing was up for debate. Probably both, he decided. And 'Professor McGonagall,' he reminded himself. Throwing out the teachers' and ministry officials' first names was only going to cause more problems. He took a swift measure of his inner wards – yes, they would hold. For now. For now, he still retained his full memories, his full powers. Working all day and night to take care of the horcruxes and set his important memories onto parchment - to prepare for his new future - had nearly exhausted them, however.

After a few minutes of listening to his Transformation teacher's rant, Harry realized that McGonagall's anger was being tempered by a distinct pride in her Gryffindor's accomplishment. She spoke of the dangers inherent in the transformation, pointing out his problem of transforming back. Of the months of study required and the necessity to immediately register one's Animagus form with the Ministry of Magic. It wasn't long before she was talking him through the process of changing back. Harry smiled to himself, the human response coming out as a rumbling purr from the lynx's throat. Working with her again was giving him a fond sense of nostalgia.

He purposefully transformed poorly, one limb at a time, waiting until McGonagall had transformed herself back and forth a number of times before he popped back to his human form and fell back against the couch, panting.

"Very good, very good, Harry." McGonagall's grin was immediately hidden behind a decidedly stern expression. "You've accomplished something few wizards have the power or determination to do, but, for Merlin's sake, what you were thinking I will never know! Do you have any idea what could have happened? Or how worried we were about you?" Her voice rose, loud and shrill. "Especially with what has been going on in the past few hours. I cannot believe you put us all through that!"

Eyes widening, Harry pressed back against the cushions.

McGonagall closed her eyes and pressed one hand against her chest, taking several deep breaths. "Yes. Well. There will be time to assess a suitable punishment later, when things have calmed down." She reseated herself in the chair opposite him, her eyes narrowed. With a flick of her wand his clothes were freshened, and the worst of the dirt and grime cleansed from his skin. "Are you hungry? Thirsty? I know you must be exhausted – you'll need to sleep yourself out, Harry, before you even attempt to resume your normal activities." She frowned, considering. "Not that any of us are quite sure what those are at the moment. However," she addressed him again, "Professor Snape has left you a Pepper-Up potion if you need it. I must get a sense of what happened, you see. If only to try to prevent the transformation from taking you this way again."

"Th –" Harry cleared his throat, "thirsty, Professor." He coughed and made a face. "Not quite used to all the fur."

After she'd conjured him a large glass of pumpkin juice, she sat back expectantly. Harry nodded to himself. It seemed Dumbledore and Snape were allowing him the chance to come up with his own explanations. It was far more than he'd expected, actually. Perhaps they were too busy at the moment, dealing with the ministry, the Aurors, and, hopefully, making sure the Death Eaters were rounded up and kept clear of their children in Slytherin.

"I guess I should start by telling you about my scar."

McGonagall sat forward on her chair. "Your scar?"

"Yes. You see, it's always been, well, a sort of alarm. Whenever Voldemort is close, when he's threatening me, or, even if he's plotting to do something to me, it hurts. My first year it ached in Quirrell's presence. And, last year, in the graveyard, Voldemort touched it and, and made it burn."

Her expression was grim, her eyes soft. "Professor Dumbledore shared some of this with me, with all the staff. Are you telling me that, since, since the graveyard, that it's gotten worse?"

Harry nodded. "Now it's as if I can see him. I mean – I know he's not there, but inside my mind I see him watching me. Connecting with me." Harry remembered the panic, the horrible feeling that Voldemort would be able to rise up from within Harry and take him over. With the memories came the anger. Dumbledore had known it was happening. He'd known all along of the connection, the sliver of Voldemort's soul lodged within Harry's scar. And all he'd done was turn away.

"It's horrible! And I can't stop it! Nothing I've done has made any difference!" Harry allowed his fifteen-year-old body's emotions their release. "And, and Dumbledore won't even talk to me! No one is helping! I – didn't know what to do – I tried everything!"

McGonagall pressed one hand down on his knee. "What did you try, Harry?"

"I – I tried to sneak into Professor Snape's pantry for Dreamless Sleep. I thought, if I could keep busy during the day with classes and homework and Quidditch and, uh, -" he stuttered to a halt.

"And with your secret Defense club? It's all right, child. I know all about it."

"Oh. Well, yeah, that. But then Umbridge took away Quidditch, and Professor Snape has really good wards on his Potions, you know?" He turned away, unwilling to meet McGonagall's eyes. "And it just kept getting worse. So, I was thinking about writing to Sirius, to ask him what to do, but then I realized that maybe I didn't have to." He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "He and my dad managed to do the Animagus transformation in their fifth year. And, if I could be an animal, well, maybe if Voldemort got in, if he rummaged through my mind and tried to – tried to take me over, then he'd only find an animal. And no one -" he seethed, "no one would have to help me."

"So, I practiced. Every night, with the curtains around my bed I practiced. I used my cloak to sneak into the library for books. And then, that day in class, I felt it again. Voldemort. Inside." He clutched at the front of his robes. "I – I don't remember much after that. Except that I woke up in the hospital wing. I knew I had to go, to get away. To learn to transform. So, I sneaked out to the Forbidden Forest. To Hagrid's hut. And I did it." He set an awestruck expression on his face. "I did it. I was an animal. Not poor Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Or the one who was cut and tortured in the graveyard. Who had to watch Cedric die. I was an animal. I was free."

"Oh, my dear boy," McGonagall whispered. She slid from her seat to perch beside him on the couch, one arm around his shoulders. "I had no idea. No idea how very alone you had become."

Harry stiffened, but she didn't back away.

"Could you not have told your friends? Spoken about –"

"About a crazed evil wizard trying to take over my mind?" Harry's laughter was bitter. "It was bad enough in second year when they found out I could speak Parseltongue – don't you remember the whole school deciding I was the Heir to Slytherin?"

"Yes, but couldn't you have come to me?"

He heard the desperate hope in her voice. The longing. He gazed up at her. "No. I've gotten used to relying on myself, Professor. To trust myself. I'm sorry."

The creases beside her eyes and mouth deepened. "No, I'm sorry, Harry."

He pulled away just a bit so that he could face her. "I didn't tell you to make you feel bad, Mi – Professor. I'm just being honest. Honest about how it was to live this life during fifth year. I didn't understand why I was so angry all the time, why I was taking it out on my friends." Harry backtracked, realizing his wording was going to confuse the issue if this kept on. "I still don't understand except to say that I was desperate. Desperate for some way to keep Voldemort out. To prove to Dumbledore – to everyone – that I was good enough. That they could trust me."

McGonagall drew in a breath and held it. She pressed her eyes closed tight for a moment. Whatever emotion had overwhelmed her, she managed to push it far enough away to respond.

"Thank you. Thank you for telling me. I believe I understand, and considering your other options, I think we can all be relieved that an Animagus transformation is what you decided upon as a way to cope." Her hand tightened on his shoulder. "In fact, I'm more grateful than you can imagine."

Older Harry, the one who'd lived through the years after the war, who'd stood over more caskets, wand raised to honor the dead, than Minerva McGongall ever would, swallowed down bile. Beyond the war deaths. Beyond Remus and Tonks and Fred, Snape and Dumbledore, Susan and Lavender and Colin, men and women, released from Voldemort's clutching hold, had welcomed a quick death at their own hands. Children had died alongside their parents, unaware that there was another option. After the years of torture and betrayal and death, those on the winning side had not thought much of forgiveness. Or redemption. Or mercy. 

Now, in this reality, Harry would forge a new way. A different way. But, let those in power, let McGonagall and Snape and Dumbledore be reminded of just how volatile children's emotions could be. How easy it was to fall into despair, unable to find a way back to the light. He took a shaky breath. "That was never an option for me, Professor." He raised a bleak gaze to hers. "I'm supposed to save the world from Voldemort. Killing myself wouldn't accomplish that."

She pressed Harry close, her body shuddering against his before she held him once more at arm's length. "You've given me much to think about, Harry. I'm almost convinced to wait to share my news in the face of your daunting honesty. But," she dropped her hands into her lap, "that would be a disservice. Not to mention a nasty repayment for your forthright words."

"What?" Harry frowned. "What's happened?"

"Harry," she breathed, relief and joy glittering in her eyes, "Voldemort is dead."

"Wh – what?" His heart was pounding fiercely.

"Merlin as my witness, Harry. Voldemort is dead." She nodded, smiling. "Gone. Killed by one of his Death Eaters."

Harry blinked, confused by the sudden flood of emotion rushing through him. He shook his head back and forth in quick jerks, trying to catch his breath. He knew. He'd been there. He'd killed the bastard. Why was he trembling? This wasn't part of his act, his Occluded mind letting a few hints and clues about his thinking slip through. He backed away from McGonagall, pushing against her when she tried to touch him. He stumbled to his feet and headed towards her fireplace, craving heat, comfort, anything to drive away the chill in his arms and legs. He fell to his hands and knees, head hanging. His gut cramped, and he heaved, bile burning its way up his throat and out onto McGonagall's rug.

Strong arms grasped his shoulders, holding him through the shakes as he emptied his stomach, tears and snot mixing with the putrid mess of flesh and feathers and pumpkin juice. Harry gulped in a few shallow breaths, groaning, eyes tightly closed in shame as he let his teacher support him. A grown man, he chided himself, a grown man sicking up on his teacher's rug. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, determined to stop this nonsense and get a hold of himself.

The mess disappeared, and Harry found himself wrapped in a warm blanket, being urged to lean back against McGonagall's padded chair. 

"It's all right. That's it. Just lean here while I Floo Madam Pomfrey. No, no," McGonagall pressed him back down when he tried to surge to his feet in denial, "you just sit there and breathe slowly. You've had more than one shock to your system, Harry, and it isn't any wonder that you're feeling, well, a bit out of sorts." She caught his eye and nodded. "Please. Let me help."

Harry slumped back, burrowing into the soft blanket she'd magicked around him. His mouth tasted of rotted meat and he gagged down another swallow, refusing to give in. Exhaustion drew dark fingers around the edges of his vision, threatening to steal his thoughts and drop him into sleep. He couldn't sleep yet. He had to find out what Dumbledore was doing. What Severus and he had set in motion. Had his parchments arrived? Had Severus read and understood what he'd written? Before they shoved him back into Gryffindor Tower, pretending Harry was the clueless fifteen-year-old student he resembled, he needed a way to reach them.

"Dumbledore," he muttered as Minerva rose from her discussion with Poppy Pomfrey. "I – I need to talk to Dumbledore. Please."

Minerva was staring down at him with something that resembled pity. "Of course, Harry. I've already sent him a message that you're back. But, please, give the man some time." She adjusted her glasses. "He is a bit busy right now."

Harry clenched his teeth, memories of how the headmaster had ignored him for most of his fifth year wrestling through his control. "Of course he is. Much too busy. Always too busy."

"Harry."

He closed his eyes, one hand gripping the soft blanket around him, the other pressed against his side, making sure his wand was secure in its pocket. "Can I go now?" Dumbledore would find that keeping an older and wiser Harry Potter in the dark and out of his office was going to be much more difficult than it had been his first time through Hogwarts.

"Let's let Madam Pomfrey have a quick look at you first. And then it's off to bed. I'm sure your friends will be delighted to have you back with them."

"Fine," he groaned. The medi-witch could be helpful, especially if she brought one of Severus' Stomach Calming Draughts. And, once Harry was back with Ron and Hermione – 

Harry drew in a sharp, painful breath, memories of his future and his past tumbling over each other for attention. The three of them, little first-years, working out the tests to reach the Philosopher's Stone. Hermione punching Draco Malfoy in the nose. They way they'd supported him as they fled Death Eaters and Snatchers during the war. And, finally, his last glimpse of Ron's angry, accusing face at the funeral. No. Harry set his jaw. Not this time. This time there would be no mistakes. No – 

"Harry?" Minerva was bending close, concerned.

"Yeah. All right," Harry whispered, shoving the memories, the flailing emotions, everything back behind his barriers. Seeing those two again, and Seamus and Dean, Oliver Wood and Neville Longbottom. And – Harry lifted dry eyes to Minerva's frown. "Thank you. I guess I'm still a little –" he shrugged.

"Of course you are. Now, just relax, I'm sure she'll only be a minute and then it's up to your dormitory for the rest of the day. I'll have Dobby bring your supper to the Common Room. Something light and nourishing, I think."

"Dobby. Brilliant." The thought of Dobby's face, his head stacked with hats and scarfs wrapped all around his torso brought a smile. Yes. Dobby wouldn't die at Lestrange's knife. That was good. It was enough. At least for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an A/N regarding the adult behavior in the Harry Potter books. There's been a few comments about how awful the adults treated Harry - and some of that definitely is coming out in the story. Here are my thoughts.
> 
> First of all, I believe J K Rowling is a genius - her books brought millions of children and adults back to books and her characters and settings continue to inspire fan fic writers and others to create more stories within her worlds. She made us love Harry, suspect Snape, hate Lucius, and wonder about what Dumbledore had up his sleeve. In the end, she turned our thinking on its ear with Snape and Draco, and gave her readers an opportunity to vent with Ron while hiding from Death Eaters. "I thought you'd have a clue what you were doing!" Yes, didn't we all? Amazing, talented author.
> 
> Second, plotting out and writing a book with hints and clues and mysteries and rising action, etc, is not at all like real life. If Harry hadn't been abandoned, alone, grieving, totally clueless he wouldn't have been Harry. Having everything explained to him in Book 1 might just have ruined the entire series. In real life, we can be angry with Dumbledore, with McGonagall, and certainly with Snape while at the same time realizing how truly full and rounded these characters are and how their faults contributed to the brilliance of her stories.
> 
> This is a long way to go about saying I don't mean to bash characters in my work. But I do mean to shine a different light on their actions - and inactions. Harry's young life looks very different when his adult self looks back on it - just like it does to us, his readers. Thoughts?


	12. Defining Evil

By noon, Severus had supervised over a dozen visits between Slytherin parents and children in his Hogwarts quarters. The elves provided a steady stream of hot tea and biscuits and Severus had grown practiced in speaking reassurances and promises to family after family. "They are safe here," he repeated to mothers and fathers, grandparents and guardians, "safe from any hand turned against them."

None of the Death Eaters' families had come – of course. Using the list Potter had provided, Aurors had gone after Voldemort's inner circle immediately, catching a great number as they were first realizing their changed circumstances. Most were in Azkaban holding cells. Only two had chosen to fight – to die – taking family, house elves, and a few Ministry officials with them. Other administrations in other countries around the world were working quickly to eliminate further threats from their own dark wizards.

"You may return to your Common Room, Miss Parkinson. Make sure the older students assist the younger students with their letters home. Auror Tonks will take care of their delivery to the school owls."

"Yes, Professor." The girl had taken to clenching her hands into fists inside the wide sleeves of her robes. "Sir –"

Severus reined in his impatience. "Yes?"

"Sir – what's happening to Draco? To Greg and Vincent and the others who were removed before we were awakened this morning? Are they –"

"They are here at Hogwarts, Miss Parkinson, and unharmed, I assure you. A place has been prepared for them to wait in isolation with whatever family is safe. Hopefully, most will return to Slytherin House within a few days. But," he bit off the last consonant so that it echoed, "you should resign yourself to the fact that some may not return at all."

"Draco, you mean."

Severus folded his arms across his chest. "The Malfoy situation is quite dire. Draco's family openly served the Dark Lord. His father made no attempt to hide his identity. He threatened and blackmailed many witches and wizards, believing himself to be untouchable by any authorities. The story his wand told when it was investigated by the Aurors was," he snapped his mouth closed, considering the age and delicacy of the girl in front of him. "Needless to say, Lucius Malfoy led his son down a very dark path."

"But, Draco isn't his father! He's only fifteen! Surely they won't send Draco to Azkaban because of what his father's done."

"Miss Parkinson." Severus' careful drawl seemed to snatch the girl from the edge of hysteria. "I mentioned Draco possibly not returning to Hogwarts not because of the threat of Azkaban. Think, girl. I'd been led to believe that you are quite gifted academically, not that you'd make rash assumptions and jump to Gryffindor levels of conclusions!"

Frowning fiercely to stall her tears, the girl took a deep breath. "Then – I don't –" Her gaze flicking back and forth as if she was shuffling mental parchments, Parkinson gave a decisive nod. "Of course. You're worried about Draco's safety here. If his family is in Azkaban, if his father is kissed by the Dementors, how could Draco attend school? The other students would take revenge, especially now. No one would stop them." She met Severus' even stare with a knowing look. "That's why you've locked down Slytherin House. To keep us safe, not to punish us."

"I have no reason to punish my snakes," Severus bent closer, "not yet. Not unless they prove to me that they are not worth saving by making ridiculous assumptions or attempting to circumvent my very plainly communicated rules. Do I make myself clear?"

"I'll keep them in line, sir."

"I am delighted that we have reached an understanding," Severus replied grimly, gesturing to the Floo. "I shall be in important meetings for the rest of the afternoon. Please let Auror Tonks know that any further family visits will be scheduled for tomorrow morning at the earliest."

"Yes, sir."

Once the green flames had died down, Severus scratched a few hasty notes and left his quarters, folding the parchments into smaller squares and sealing them with a word of magic so that only his intended recipient could open them. Owls could not make their way to his private rooms so far beneath the castle, but they could be summoned to his Potions Office. He would take a few moments there to compose himself before he returned to Dumbledore's side.

As Severus turned into the corridor that would lead to his office, his hurried steps slowed and then stopped. The hallway before him was noisy with squawks and hoots, feathers tumbling together through the air. At his appearance, wings flapped, and the noise level rose as dozens of birds raced to reach him first, hopping or lurching into the air with their burdens.

Owls. His corridor was filled with owls. Owls carrying letters.

"This is … unexpected," he murmured. "Get – for Merlin's sake, get away. Get down, you blasted birds." Snape waved his hands, trying to get the ruddy things to allow him space to move towards his door. "I'll pluck you all featherless if you don't get yourselves in order! Immediately!"

The owls settled, the more disciplined, older birds pecking at their younger, more excitable cousins to get them to drop to the floor and wait as Severus passed. A mid-sized brown barn owl hooted once, loud enough for the sound to reach the Astronomy Tower, and the last few feather-headed birds settled down. 

"Thank you." Severus felt safe enough to turn his back for the second it took to unlock his door and then swept back around to address his audience. "Now, if you will present yourselves in consecutive order, beginning with those birds who arrived first and then sequentially thereafter, I will keep myself from cursing the lot of you with trichomonas. Are we understood?"

Silence reigned at the threat. No owl wanted to risk bleeding mouth sores. The large barn owl hooted softly and hopped forward, its head bobbing as if to hurry Severus through the door and into his office. He chuckled softly as the bird stood sentinel in his doorway and then turned its head completely around to spear the gathering with a baleful stare. As Severus spelled on the lights and moved to his desk, he heard the owls rearranging themselves under the barn owl's direction.

This would take some thought, Severus considered. He banished the two chairs that sat before his desk where reluctant students habitually perched. Yes, he nodded to himself. Perches would suffice. He conjured two large perches with several levels and sizes of branches for the variety of talons represented. He then hung water dishes and food troughs within beak distance along the perches. If many of the birds had been spelled to wait to receive answers, this could be a very long undertaking. He spelled the area to a false sunlight, hoping that the lighting would encourage some birds to sleep. With a huff, he shot a spell at the floor beneath the perches, enchanting the tiles to disappear feathers or fluff or … other things that would undoubtedly fall there. 

"At your leisure, then," he muttered towards his self-appointed sentry bird, and swept behind his desk.

Six owls entered the office together, scooting in under the barn owl's wing. Severus narrowed his eyes. He did not recognize these as school or personal owls, they were too wild, too scrawny. They shied away from the barn owl as if unused to living in proximity with other birds. Severus sat back in his chair, fingertips together as he reached out with his magic to try to solve this puzzle.

A particular magical signature glowed from each of the birds. A signature he'd seen recently in the Headmaster's office. As the owls flapped up onto his desk, Severus leaned forward. Each one stuck out a leg with a spelled parchment. As soon as Severus pointed his wand to detect any unhealthy spells, the parchments detached themselves from the birds and opened on the desk in front of him, the attached shrinking charms dissipating. The birds hopped backwards, taking startled flight, as the small letters expanded to become several thick stacks of parchment covered front and back with hastily crabbed handwriting.

"Potter," Severus muttered. The past three weeks had contained more than horcrux hunting, if these tomes were anything to go by.

The birds, released from whatever spell Potter had laid on their minds to get wild birds to follow his directions, flapped tiredly to the waiting food and water, preened themselves, and went to sleep.

Severus stared down at the piles, shaking his head at Potter's large scrawl heading the first message. "This first," it read, "the rest can wait until we speak. I trust you to safeguard these notes. Take care of them for me."

When had he become the boy's – he caught himself with difficulty – the _man's_ confidante? The one Potter entrusted with his secrets? Perhaps if Severus had not witnessed Potter's return and his one-sided duel with the Dark Lord, he would, even now, be very much in the dark about the situation. He found he liked that thought even less.

Severus gathered up five thick stacks, leaving only the one labeled 'first' on his desk. He strode to a spelled cabinet set against the wall and filed them behind his office's strongest wards, among his lesson plans, quizzes, and tests. No student or teacher had ever defeated these wards; he expected that whatever Potter had written would indeed be safe there, as well.

The first message seemed to stare balefully up at him. It included several sheets of parchment and a single package. Severus took up the package – a fist-sized box covered with plain brown wrapping. Charms were entangled across the wrapping, woven into the fabric, charms requiring a certain specific magical signature in order to open it. A signature that was neither Severus' nor Potter's. He frowned and set it aside then took up the headlined note, broke the seal, and scanned the contents. The words within had him gripping the parchment with both hands, his mind reeling at the revelations. 

Neatly laid out in simple rows was an outline of Lucius Malfoy's life. It began with a sketch of the wizard's family, his parents and grandparents. His father's devotion to a boy he met at Hogwarts. A boy who had gathered sycophantic followers among the most brutal thugs in Slytherin House and then grew to become a sophisticated and well-traveled young man, earning the interest and loyalty of powerful families by his devotion to pureblood politics. Tom Riddle.

As Severus read further, the words set down in plain ink and parchment turned to heated stones in his gullet. He read quickly, eager to get to the end and yet dreading every turn of the page. The horrors set down here had never been brought to light – Severus himself had not begun to suspect how the Malfoy elders had warped their families, generation after generation, and he'd spent many, many hours in Lucius' company. Dark rituals, blood bonds, what would rightly be called torture and mind-control directed towards one's own children. The trial of Severus' own homelife was not worth mentioning in comparison.

After reading the last disgusting line, he placed the parchment down on his desk, painfully releasing his tightly clenched hands and drawing them away from the foul revelations. He'd known some lengths pureblood families considered reasonable in order to protect their bloodlines, to ensure obedience from children swayed by classmates and lovers. As a student, he'd overheard stories in the Slytherin dorms from boys and girls shaking with fear at the thought of returning home for the summer. As a Potions Master, he'd been approached by fathers and mothers intent on convincing a son or daughter to fall in love with 'the right choice.' As a teacher he had listened to students in torment over oaths their parents insist they make.

As a spy, Severus' duty had been clear. Align himself with those families closest to the Dark Lord. Ensure they had no reason to doubt his allegiance. Promise that he would protect their interests, that placing their children at Hogwarts, among muggleborns and the influence of light wizards, would not raise doubts or give their children other ideas than perfect obedience. Severus closed his eyes. No, he had not 'betrayed' the fanatical followers of Voldemort. Instead, he had spent years handing children over to darkness. To torture. To slavery.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were housed a few levels below Severus' office in a locked and warded set of rooms inaccessible to anyone save Dumbledore and himself. Their wands had been confiscated by seasoned Aurors, their very clothes taken away along with jewelry and other accessories and were now held in the custody of the Wizengamot itself. There had been no opportunity for escape – Severus had arrived unexpectedly at Malfoy Manor a few hours before dawn and caught the two by complete surprise.

Severus had thought his upcoming interview with Lucius to be a predictable matter. The wizard would pretend to have known all along about Severus' espionage. He would claim to be working alongside Severus, keeping his secrets, waiting for the best opportunity to betray the Dark Lord to the authorities. Severus would be forced to resort to Veritaserum before the Wizengamot to find out the truth. It – he took a deep breath – it would have been a long, drawn-out process, painful for everyone, and would, inevitably, result in Lucius being sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss, as Miss Parkinson had assumed.

After reading Potter's notes, Severus had no idea how to approach Lucius Malfoy. The man's psyche had been broken by his own father and grandfather long before he reached the age of decision. Repeated Legilimency had ripped away any control Lucius could have had, and that, combined with specific dark artifacts and rituals, had done even worse. Snape pressed his lips together, refusing his inner rage and disgust the freedom he so desired to give them. Instead, he fed his emotions into his Occlumency shields, hoping to mask his compassion, his pity, for what Lucius had suffered at his father's and grandfather's hands.

Not to mention at Voldemort's.

Severus drew his wand in a circle above his desk and drank down the inch of Firewhiskey that appeared there before banishing the glass. Yes, Lucius had made his own choices. He had done horrendous things with glee and gusto, just as Severus had. But Severus had nothing for which to excuse his poor choices other than bitterness and jealousy, a heart for vengeance and a mind for ambition. For Lucius, there had been very little choice at all.

His gaze lingered on the small package set to one side. Potter hadn't mentioned the contents in the parchment, but Severus knew what it must be. He knew its importance – to Lucius, to his wife and son, and to the hope that even Lucius Malfoy might, somehow, be redeemed before his inevitable end.

A soft hoot from the doorway drew Severus from his despairing thoughts. He straightened his shoulders and then tucked the package and parchments into an inside pocket of his robes.

"Next, please," he stated. Best take care of the remaining owls before he spoke with Dumbledore. Before he forced himself to face Lucius with what Potter had discovered. It was only sensible; allowing his correspondence to build up any further would not be wise.

Severus knew it to be a transparent excuse to put aside what he'd read for a few more minutes. To pretend that nothing had changed in his regard for and disgust of Lucius Malfoy. As the next few owls flapped to his desk, he conjured a pot of tea and a few sandwiches. His headache and unsettled stomach must be because of his lack of proper meals, he insisted to himself.

Of course.


	13. Dark Ties

Severus dropped into a chair in Dumbledore's office with as much grace and dignity as was left to him. It wasn't much. It had been a very long day already at half-past four and would no doubt be much longer before he could truly rest. A few moments of discussion with Dumbledore, a sharing of news and insights – as well as burdens – would have to do.

The headmaster swept around his desk with a copper carafe that billowed steam, two porcelain cups, a squat sugar bowl and an overflowing dish of whipped cream bobbing along behind him. Severus caught the aroma of dark roast coffee with a hint of cinnamon and felt immediately refreshed by the promise of caffeine and sugar. Dumbledore moved with the ease and swiftness of a man half his age – one quarter, even – his sudden and unlooked-for responsibilities wearing lighter on his spirit than any previous worries. The weight of training the Saviour of the Wizarding World while still keeping him in the dark must have been quite heavy. 

Severus glanced down at his bare left arm and frowned. Many weights had been lifted last night. But his promise to Lily to care for her son, to protect him, still remained. 

"I understand that Minerva has turned Harry over to Poppy in the Hospital Wing. Much against Harry's will." Albus poured the rich beverage into one mug and hovered it towards Severus. "She will be speaking to the Gryffindors shortly in order to prepare them for his return." Chuckling, he doctored his own cup with six teaspoons of sugar and a large dollop of frothy cream. "I believe, between the two of us, Minerva and I have come up with an idea for easing Harry over this difficult time. We shall need to discuss it when we have a moment."

Nodding, Severus rubbed one hand across his aching forehead. Inserting Potter back into his fifteen-year-old life would be troublesome – it deserved much thought and planning. "'When we have a moment,'" he echoed. "We shall be required to make a moment, Albus. More than one."

"Indeed," the headmaster responded. "And, of course, since his Animagus transformation is to remain a secret, it will be all over the school by the time dinner is over."

Severus stirred a modest spoonful of cream into his coffee. He hummed, considering. "Perhaps a word to Madam Pomfrey. She should be urged to do an extensive series of tests on the boy, er, wizard." His cup made a sharp clink against his saucer at his frustration.

"You have only to train yourself to speak of Harry differently in his presence, Severus. After all, the other students must believe that he is still a 'boy' to you. To all of us," Albus gestured with one arm.

"Yes. Well, as I was saying," Severus began again, "a thorough diagnostic on the boy's physical health might be a good idea. Minerva mentioned that he took quite ill once he transformed back from his lynx Animagus."

Dumbledore's eyes glinted over the rim of his cup. "We have no idea how his 'journey' has affected his body. I imagine the strain to be severe, both mentally and physically. I don't believe running around for three weeks with little time to take care of himself will have done him much good, either. Before all this, Harry was already quite stressed. Grieving and fearful." His blue eyes lost some of their sharpness. "Minerva shared the boy's complaints. Even after thirty years, Harry remains quite bitter about his treatment at my hands."

"At both of our hands," Severus added. "Not to mention the torture he was receiving from Umbridge." Severus set down his cup on the small table to his right. "Has the witch been seen to?"

"Oh, yes." Dumbledore took another sip to fortify himself. "Dolores Umbridge had quite a collection of dark artifacts in a charmed extension of one of her trunks." He put the cup down hurriedly. "Twenty blood quills, Severus. Twenty. The Wizengamot took one look at the collection and sent her directly to Azkaban. Her cell, I believe is right next to Bellatrix Lestrange's. I understand the constant screaming obscenities can be quite … torturous."

"Did they at least question her? Get her to reveal the source of these artifacts?" The wizarding authorities had acted too hastily before, without thought to the future. The coffee turned sour in Severus' mouth. Look at Black and Pettigrew. If there had been a trial, a cooling period between the Potters' deaths and Black's sentence, between action and reaction, Pettigrew might have been revealed as the true betrayer. Harry might have grown up with a godfather to take care of him – even Black would have been better than Petunia, he grimaced.

"Yes, yes, calm yourself, my friend. Veritaserum loosened her tongue quite effectively. The Aurors will be busy for some time rounding up her suppliers and their other customers."

"I shall have the seventh-years brew more as soon as we can continue our classes with any kind of normality." Severus sighed. "There will be no end of questions tomorrow, you know." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "In every level, I imagine, the same questions, over and over again."

"That would truly be a test of your vast resources of patience, Severus."

He looked up at the amusement in Dumbledore's tone. "Are you second guessing your desire to see regular classes resume tomorrow?"

"Not quite," Dumbledore replied. "I do believe returning the students to their normal schedules will be a great benefit for them. Idle hands and minds are much more susceptible to mischief and anxiety, as you well know. But, I believe a school-wide assembly in the Great Hall after breakfast in order to lay out the facts will put many worries to rest. And," he refilled his cup, "may reduce the number of students you are tempted to hex for their infernal questions."

"Will the Slytherins be permitted to attend?"

"Oh, yes. All those who remain in Slytherin House will be free to attend their classes. Those who have been removed will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis. The Ministry, Wizarding Child Services, and you, of course," he gave Severus a nod of acknowledgement, "as their guardian here at Hogwarts, will be sure to place students with properly vetted family members who will ultimately decide whether the child will continue to attend Hogwarts or whether it would be better for them to start over at another school."

"Draco has been demanding my immediate attention." Severus sighed. The boy was frightened – for himself and for his parents. "His will be a particularly difficult case."

"Yes. Misters Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle are a bit easier to anticipate. I don't believe those three will return to Hogwarts."

"No." The Crabbe and Goyle children did not have the academic mindset – they only attended because their ambitious parents had wanted them close to other pureblood students. Close to the center of power. Close to Draco Malfoy. "Mister Nott had already taken the Dark Mark, as you know. He will be lucky to escape prosecution, even at his age."

"Indeed. I believe his great aunt and uncle live in the American west and are somehow involved in the movie industry. Something about 'special effects.' They have begun petitioning for Theodore's release to them and have agreed that his wand should be broken and his powers bound." Dumbledore's mouth was pinched. "I hope the Wizengamot will consider that and his complete removal from Voldemort's circle of influence to be punishment enough. He is only fifteen." The blue eyes pierced Severus straight through. "Older men have made far worse choices and been redeemed."

"I would be the last to argue that Mister Nott be imprisoned at fifteen, Albus. His aunt and uncle sound like a good alternative. Now, Mister Zabini and Miss Avery…"

"Ah, yes. Miss Avery is seventh year. The investigation into her ties with Voldemort will be extensive, I'm afraid. Even though she and her mother have not lived with Avery for years, that might have been a feint, a way to appear to distance themselves from suspicion."

"I'd urge the Ministry to tread carefully, Albus. Miss Avery may be the daughter of a confirmed Death Eater, but she is of gentle temperament. She has worked closely with Madam Grubbly-Plank this year and seeks only to continue to work with magical creatures. As for Zabini, well," he steepled his fingers together, "I don't believe his mother's past should be held against him." The boy was clever, devious, but quite neutral, Severus believed. His mother had taught him to look first to his own interests and to never allow anyone else to control his thoughts or actions.

Dumbledore bent his head but made no reply.

Severus had put it off long enough. "Before we consider Draco, I must have my confrontation with Lucius and his wife." He removed Potter's parchment from his robe. "I have new information before we proceed. A few hours ago, I received several missives that Potter must have put together over the past three weeks after his return from the future. This is the only one I've had time to deal with at this point, but," he bit off the last consonant, "believe me, it is worth your time."

He waited while the headmaster read. It was very simple to decipher which revelation Dumbledore had just read by the man's reactions. Yes, Severus had been right in his assumptions that Dumbledore had not known these facts. He doubted anyone but Lucius and his deceased relatives had any idea of what had gone on in the Malfoy home. He wondered how much Lucius himself remembered of the dark rites and rituals he'd been subjected to as a child. Suddenly Severus wished the rich coffee had been laced with something quite a bit stronger.

Dumbledore dropped his hands to his lap, the pages huddled together as if for protection from tearing hands. His gaze was distant, looking on the scenes Potter had alluded to, perhaps. Severus could detect none of his thoughts, but the old man's face was unguarded, for the moment. Sorrow rode across his features. Sorrow and, somehow, guilt. 

"I've heard of these rituals, my friend. Many years ago, in another land." Still staring into the distance, Albus continued. "A certain boy at Durmstrang School developed them in an attempt to turn the hearts and minds of his schoolmates to his way of thinking."

Severus closed his eyes. Grindelwald. He could only be speaking of Grindelwald, Dumbledore's once closest friend and comrade.

"He was expelled, you know. Some dark magic is altogether too dark, even for Durmstrang. The experiments he'd been doing on his fellow students," Albus sighed, "did not end well. For anyone."

No. Certainly not for Albus and Aberforth. For their troubled sister or their parents. Severus knew very little of the story – Aberforth had offered up hints and clues, bitter suggestions that Severus had taken to Dumbledore for explanation. The headmaster had grown solemn and still, accepting his brother's anger as his due. He'd admitted his foolish pride, how his own actions had caused his family's ruin and his support had raised Grindelwald to power. The story had forged a connection between them, between Albus and Severus, between one foolish, guilt-ridden wizard and another. Two wizards with beloved blood on their hands. 

Severus tilted his head, remembering the discussion with Potter early this morning. "Your wand," he murmured.

Dumbledore drew the wand from his robes, hovering it in the air between them. "Yes. I won it from Gellert when I mastered him in the duel. When I broke his power. He was obsessed with the Deathly Hallows, even as a boy at school. Until recently, I never thought to bring together the three hallows, never sought to be death's master." The wand floated down to rest on Dumbledore's raised palm. "Not until I met Harry Potter and learned that, at certain times, during the most stressful situations, another wizard looked at me out of the boy's eyes."

The thought turned Severus' stomach. "You believed the boy must die."

"I did." Old, bleak eyes met Severus'. "I believed destroying all of the horcruxes was the only answer. And Harry, Harry was the last." Despair met determination in the old wizard's expression – and determination won. " _'Neither can live while the other survives.'_ Others took the prophecy's words to mean one must kill the other. I heard something quite different after I met young Mister Potter at his sorting."

" _'Neither can live,'_ " Severus repeated. He bent his head, considering. He'd been angry, earlier. Disgusted that Dumbledore had raised Potter as a pig to slaughter. The anger still lingered, but Severus swallowed down his own share of guilt. His own hands were far from clean.

"These … experiments that Grindelwald pursued," he began again. If he was to understand Lucius' background, he had to know. 

"Lucius' grandfather. He was part of Grindelwald's inner circle."

Severus closed his eyes. Of course.

"Many believed that Voldemort had been a student of Grindelwald – not of the man himself, but of his philosophies and politics. The same pride, the same ideals of a 'benevolent' dictatorship – his magical reign over wizards and muggles alike - burned inside each one." Dumbledore's words reeked with self-disgust. "Both turned to the dark arts to fuel their wizardry; it was no surprise that Tom Riddle would have sought to find spells and experiments Grindelwald might have already perfected. Sought out older wizards, patriarchs of pureblood families, who might have access to some of Grindelwald's notes and spells. Or that Voldemort would promise great rewards to those who helped him."

The Malfoy ancestors' secrets made much more sense now. Already warped by Grindelwald's evil, the elder Malfoys had traded one allegiance for another. And made sure their children and grandchildren followed in his footsteps.

"You've heard of these rituals?"

Dumbledore nodded. "In hypothetical discussions with my former friend. The sorts of 'what-if' philosophizing that young wizards can spend endless sleepless hours hashing and rehashing. As for implementing them, using them on one's own children and grandchildren, well," he sighed, "I hope you think better of me than believing I would have condoned the idea."

"Your defeat of Grindelwald removed all doubt, if there ever had been any," Severus answered decisively.

"Ah." Dumbledore's smile was grim. "If only my self-doubts could have been erased as effectively." He set his hands on the arms of his chair. "At any rate, I believe we can all be grateful that Grindelwald fathered no children himself to experiment on, even if his reach extended far further than I had ever anticipated into other people's families."

"And grateful that Potter chose to return to this very hour in order to help us untangle Grindelwald's – and Malfoy's – twisted oaths and curses." The ache between Severus' eyes throbbed as the images provoked by Potter's words swept across his vision.

"You will speak with Lucius, of course," Dumbledore added softly.

It was not a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments, kudos, and bookmarks are fantastic! Thank you!


	14. Gryffindor Responds

Most of the Gryffindors were in the Common Room this afternoon. Even the worst procrastinators had finished their homework – or had no intention of doing it and were happy to talk and laugh with their friends. To have a break like this in the middle of term was brilliant all by itself, but coupling that with the news about Voldemort, well, Neville wasn't the only one who just couldn't believe it. Couldn't seem to match up his usual state of dread and fear with this new reality. A world without Voldemort. A world where Death Eaters were being imprisoned right and left.

A world where Harry and the DA didn't have to work so hard to protect themselves.

When they'd been rushed from their beds this morning, instructed to dress quickly and come to the Great Hall, Neville had found himself hurrying to catch up with Ron and Hermione. Most of the DA members had clumped around them, anxious for any news, any word. They were sure that they were going to hear something about Harry. He'd been gone for three weeks with no word at all. It had been obvious during classes that the teachers were anxious, that Harry's sudden absence wasn't a plot – not one they were in on. Even Umbridge had seemed put-out by her favorite target's absence. 

Hermione's eyes had been red, like she'd been trying hard not to cry. Neville had known what she was afraid of – what they were all afraid of. 

The teachers were going to tell them that Voldemort had gotten Harry. That Harry was dead.

When they arrived in the Great Hall, he'd seen the same look on a lot of the girls' faces. Padma and Parvati cried on each other's shoulders. Hannah and Susan held hands at the Hufflepuff table. And Cho had her head down and was sobbing, Luna sitting beside her and patting her on the back, her own eyes clear. Neville had trembled, wondering if they'd mind if he joined them.

The Slytherin table had been empty. Neville's stomach cramped – what did it mean?

Neville had wedged himself in between Ron and Lee at the Gryffindor table. Ron, with one arm around Hermione's shoulders, didn't say a word about the lack of food or drink. Colin had forgotten his camera. Fred and George looked grim. And Seamus – Seamus was trying to maintain his arrogant attitude, to convince himself that he'd been right, and all of his friends had been wrong about Voldemort's return. But even Seamus' face was pale, and his eyes were blinking fast.

At the head table most of the teachers stood, solemn and still, waiting for the last stragglers to arrive and take their places. Neville craned his neck, searching for the faces he was expecting. No Dumbledore. No McGonagall. No Snape. In fact, all the Heads of House were gone. 

Professor Sinestra had moved forward to stand before the golden podium. The silence in the Great Hall deepened, like they'd been submerged underwater and were straining towards the surface on their last bit of air. She hadn't wasted words or said anything comforting to prepare them. The dark-haired teacher lifted both arms and spoke.

"This morning, the one known as Lord Voldemort was found dead."

Neville had nearly swallowed his tongue. No one seemed able to move or speak or make a noise. All eyes were on the professor, waiting. Waiting for more. For the bad news. For some explanation - how his body had died but he was still a threat, again. Something.

"He is dead. Permanently dead. Body and soul. The Aurors have already examined the body and declared that the Dark Lord is no more."

The chattering and cheering sprouted first from the Ravenclaw table, from a couple of first years. It moved like a wave up and down the other tables, students standing, cheering, laughing, Fred and George Weasley leading a chant that Neville couldn't quite make out the words of. Something about a wicked old wizard being dead. 

He turned towards Ron and found Hermione clutching his hands, her mouth open in shock. They stumbled to their feet together, Hermione shouting to be heard over the din.

"Stop! Stop! What about Harry? Please! What happened to Harry?"

When the other students had realized what she'd been shouting, the entire house of Gryffindor joined in, shouting down the other tables so that the teachers would hear them.

Professor Sinestra held her hands before her and opened her fingers. The house pennants flapped once and changed to show a beautiful sunrise, letters forming in the rosy sky: "A New Dawn." The ceiling of the Great Hall filled in with the same glow, pink and yellow and shining, tiny flicks of ice colored like the dawn drifted, twinkling, in the air over their heads. Neville's heart had lifted, and a great sigh had gone up from the students, their voices quieting until just one person stood in the open space between the tables.

"Please," Hermione had pleaded, her chin lifted high but her voice quavering, "what's happened to Harry?"

Sinestra looked down, eyebrows rising. "Why, nothing that we know of, my dear. Harry Potter is still missing, but the Ministry has determined that he was not being held by Death Eaters."

Voices had erupted before the professor could say another word. 

"Harry got him!"

"He snuck off and killed the bastard!"

"Harry was right!"

"Harry did it!"

The cheering was deafening, Gryffindors the loudest of them all. Wands were drawn, silver Patronuses dancing around the Great Hall, Weasley's fireworks exploding in the air. Neville shouted, his fist in the air. "Harry Potter! Harry Potter! Harry Potter!" They'd all joined with him, chanting. Ron and Hermione hugging each other tight. Even Seamus had been cheering.

Before the celebration could really get underway, Sinestra and the other teachers had pointed their wands and vanished the fireworks, silencing charms drifting down to smother the students' voices. They couldn't do anything about the grins on their faces. Or Seamus Finnegan's impromptu jig. 

"Students, please. We have no information pertaining to Harry Potter. Now," she'd continued, "Miss Granger, you and Miss Abbott and Mister Goldstein will meet your Heads of House in the entrance courtyard. Headmaster Dumbledore is about to announce the good news to the public. He has asked that the students assemble here and have their breakfast – his voice will be charmed so that we can all hear all of the information available. Please try to eat quietly so that further questions will not be necessary." When Hermione just stood there, hands clasped with Ron's, Sinestra made a shooing motion. "Go on then, you three. You are each Prefects, so please conduct yourselves with dignity and make Hogwarts proud."

"Yes, ma'am." Hermione had answered quietly. With a quick shrug at Ron and Neville, she and Hannah and Anthony had hurried out.

It had been good news – all of it. Voldemort and his snake found dead. Death Eaters already arrested by the Aurors. Investigations begun. The Slytherins kept in their Common Room and out of the way. The rosy light conjured in the Great Hall glowed brighter as Dumbledore's speech continued. And then, when Hermione and the other two prefects returned, she'd told them about the Animagus lynx turning up and, all of a sudden, their joy had been overshadowed.

Harry had been stuck in his first Animagus transformation in the Forbidden Forest. He hadn't killed Voldemort. It hadn't been Harry after all. 

A loud crack and a sad whinny drew Neville from his thoughts. Ron's rook had plowed straight into Seamus' knight, taking him out at the knees.

"Blimey, Ron," Seamus complained, "you don't have to be so brutal, do you?"

Ron smiled, the expression on his face a combination of innocence and satisfaction. "There's nothing tender and sweet about Wizard's Chess." He shrugged. "It's not spelled that way."

Neville figured it was payback for Seamus' attitude for most of first term. 

"You could give a man some kind of handicap, couldn't you?" Seamus suggested. "Yeah, how about starting one knight down. Or a couple of pawns –"

As the afternoon had worn on with no more information, Neville had lodged himself next to the chessboard, supposedly watching Ron beat student after student while he'd tried to get his thoughts together. He glanced over at Hermione, half-hidden by a pile of school books in the corner, obviously unwilling to talk to anyone. Fred and George were surrounded by their usual group, but the laughter was a little off, a bit subdued considering how pleased they'd been to get people to try their newest joke creations. Neville sat back in the chair, arms crossed. It didn't feel right.

When Harry had started the DA, when Neville had put his name to the parchment and started learning hexes and counter-curses, Neville had been thinking about his parents. About how brave they'd been to stand up to Voldemort in the first war. How he'd never had a chance to know them, not really, but how he didn't think they'd be very proud of how little he'd accomplished at Hogwarts. The DA had given Neville a chance to change that. To grow up, to make the hard choices in the face of Umbridge's threats, to risk himself just a little bit like they'd done. But, with Voldemort dead and his Death Eaters being rounded up, what chance did Neville have to fight evil? To stand against those who wanted to hurt others?

If he was honest, Neville felt a little disappointed. Not just for himself, but for Harry, too. For the Boy Who Lived. The one who had faced Voldemort over and over and had survived. What was Harry going to do now? Neville felt a little ashamed of his thoughts, but looking around the Gryffindor Common Room, he wondered if any of the others felt the same.

Neville's chair happened to be facing the entrance to the portrait hole, so he was one of the first students to notice Professor McGonagall's entrance. At the look on her face, he rose to his feet, one hand on each of his friend's shoulders to get their attention.

As more students saw his reaction and felt the sweep of her robes as she hurried by, the Common Room fell silent. Neville noticed Ginny Weasley hurry up the steps to the girls' rooms, probably to let anyone up there know something important was happening. Seamus scurried out from under Neville's hand, eager to do the same on the boys' side. McGonagall watched them and nodded.

"Your attention, please," she stated. 

Her demand wasn't necessary. Everyone was watching her. All the little clumps of students who had been talking about the news. About Voldemort's death and Harry's reappearance as an Animagus. Even the few who were sitting by themselves pretending to read or do schoolwork sat up straight, like Hermione. Neville straightened his shoulders. Voldemort was dead. Harry was okay. That should be all that mattered.

Ginny and Seamus were back quickly, a couple of girls and boys in tow. When they'd all settled, Professor McGonagall nodded sharply.

"I'm sure Miss Granger has told you that Harry has returned to us. As an Animagus, no less." She clucked her tongue and shook her head. "He is recovering well and is currently being given an extensive exam by Madam Pomfrey in the hospital wing. I'll allow him to speak for himself as for his reasons for pursuing his particular transformation, but," she raised both hands as if to stop them all from trampling her for answers, "keep in mind, please, that Harry has just returned from a harrowing three weeks in which he roamed the Forbidden Forest with little knowledge of himself. He may need a few days until he's himself again."

"Does he know?" Neville couldn't help it. The words seemed to rush from his mouth. "Does he know about Voldemort?"

Professor McGonagall folded her hands. "Yes. I told him straightaway. It was quite a shock, as you can imagine."

"No kidding," Ron muttered. "All that training."

"The Tournament," Fred added. "That stupid Crouch setting him up for old Voldy."

"Tom Riddle in the diary," Ginny whispered, arms wrapped around herself.

"Guess Harry doesn't have anything to worry about now, does he?"

Nasty glances were turned in Seamus' direction. 

"What? That's a good thing! The man's been burdened for too long!"

"Thank you, Mister Finnegan," McGonagall snapped. "I'm sure Harry will be grateful to know that you believe his life will now be filled with nothing but pudding and treacle."

"I just mean –"

"That's quite enough." McGonagall huffed. "I want you all to understand something. You all heard the commotion in the courtyard when it was revealed that Harry had nothing to do with Voldemort's downfall, didn't you? Reporters, ministry officials, your parents and guardians, everyone seems to believe he or she has the right to now judge Harry as somehow wanting. As if, since Voldemort is dead, that he has turned from the saviour of the wizarding world to its biggest disappointment."

Rumbles of disagreement ran through the Common Room.

"Well, I'm glad you feel as strongly about it as I do because that is an utterly ridiculous notion. Harry is a fifteen-year-old boy. The burden of victory over Lord Voldemort should never have rested on his shoulders, no matter how some brainless people have felt over the years." McGonagall was working up a good head of steam. "He has done some amazing things here at Hogwarts, as have his friends." She nodded towards Ron and Neville, towards Hermione, still sheltered in her corner. "He protected the Philosopher's Stone in first year and defeated a basilisk when he was twelve."

"And don't forget finding out about Pettigrew in third year," Ron added. "Stupid rat," muttered.

"And saving Buckbeak, and forcing away the Dementors," Hermione spoke up.

"Last year was a mess." George poked his twin with an elbow. "Nearly died facing a dragon. Nearly died in the Black Lake. Nearly died again when the Cup took him straight to Voldemort."

"The chap needs a rest," Lee Jordan sighed, shaking his head.

"Right you are, Mister Jordan. As his House, I expect Gryffindor to stand behind him as you would any other student who has been through an ordeal. Harry's life from here on out is his to choose." She leaned down, as if telling a secret. "And, as Mister Finnigan has stated so well, that is indeed a good thing."

The Common Room erupted in laughter.

McGonagall's eyes twinkled as she watched her house proudly. "It is not only Harry's life that has changed. All of our lives will, from here on, be different. There is much for the headmaster and the ministry to do, a few Death Eaters to track down, and a ministry to cleanse. We are working with our international brothers and sisters to help them root out their own dark wizards. In the short term, things at Hogwarts will be in a bit of a maelstrom. Your teachers will attempt to keep to their teaching schedules and you are all expected to study and learn. Fifth years and seventh years, especially, with your OWLs and NEWTs coming up."

"One measly day off?" Fred whined. "We should have a week of celebrations!"

"I'll thank you not to interrupt me again, Mister Weasley." McGonagall waggled her finger in the twins' direction. "As I was saying, classes will resume tomorrow – Thursday. This weekend I imagine you can expect parents and guardians to visit, making sure that you are all well and that Hogwarts is safe." She rose up on her toes. "There may be some festivities arranged if Hogwarts students can contain their frivolity for the next two days."

Hermione walked forward to stand beside Neville. "What about Umbridge?"

The air in the Common Room seemed to ignite with anger. Neville swallowed. "Yeah, we have Defense tomorrow."

Even if he hadn't already known that Professor McGonagall's Animagus form was a cat, Neville would have recognized the look on her face. It was the satisfaction of a cat who'd just had cream. 

"Dolores Umbridge," the name must have tasted like vinegar on McGonagall's tongue based on the look of disgust on her face, "has been nicely tucked away in Azkaban prison for the high crime of possession of and use of dark artifacts on underage wizards." She straightened, grinning. "In fact, she's been given the best of accommodations right next door to a certain Lestrange woman who, I'm told, screams morning, noon, and night." She brushed her hands together. "And that's that."

Their Head of House waited through another round of cheering and chants. It was Hermione who spoke up again as the din settled. 

"So, who's going to teach Defense?"

Another sly smile drifted around McGonagall's lips. "Well, it is difficult to get new teachers in the middle of term, you know. The other teachers will take over any seventh-year NEWT students individually. First and second years will be grouped together for theoretical instruction and meet up with the seventh-years for practical training two evenings a week." Her eyes widened comically in mock innocence. "As for the remaining classes, I had heard that there was someone already teaching Defense here in the school. Taking up where the Hogwarts curriculum had fallen down. He's gotten rave reviews from what I've heard. Did you know?"

A zing of excitement swept up Neville's back. "Harry?? You're going to let Harry teach Defense?"

"That's brilliant, that is!" Ron shouted.

"Merlin's fat arse – oh, sorry, Professor –" George blurted out quickly, "that's bloody marvelous!"

The Gryffindors who didn't know anything about the DA wore confused expressions and side discussions started up all around the room. But Neville didn't care. He felt as if his whole spirit was buoyant, floating above the Common Room. Harry would teach Defense to third-, fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-years. Harry was great at it; he was a natural, gifted at Defense and an excellent teacher. He was a lot like Lupin – encouraging, patient - someone who gave others confidence. 

Neville turned, catching Hermione's shocked gaze and watching the relief and joy bring color back to her cheeks. She understood. She got it. Letting Harry teach Defense, giving him that responsibility would be great for Harry. It would show him that all that he'd done, all that he'd been through fighting Voldemort, that it still had meaning. That Voldemort's death wasn't the end for him. It was the beginning.

And, maybe, it could be a beginning for Neville, too.


	15. Confronting Lucius

Severus nodded to the tall woman stationed outside the Malfoy apartment. "Auror Canticle."

"Professor."

The veteran Auror's silver-grey hair was twisted into an elaborate knot on the back of her head and secured with a ruby and jet hair brooch. Her dark eyes were wide and deep-set, the smooth bronze skin of her face belying both her years and her experience facing off against dark wizards. Strong and straight, she stood next to the trapped and spelled door, the only clue to her age the thin, gnarled hands that rested atop her sphinx-headed cane. The twisted purple scar that rose from the neckline of her robes to curve beneath her jaw and end below her right ear an obvious testimony to her calling.

"Any problems?"

"It has been quiet," Canticle answered. "Madam Malfoy has attempted to communicate a few times, but, at my continued silence, has desisted."

"And Lucius?" Severus would never believe the wizard to surrender to his imprisonment easily.

"His wandless magic is formidable, but," her half-lidded eyes gave her smile a dark edge, "those who warded this apartment were careful. Nothing – and no one – inside has come to any harm from his tantrums."

"Very good." He faced the door, jaw set, Occlumency shields tight, wand in hand. "If you would accompany me."

Canticle twisted her stick and withdrew her own wand before taking her place at Severus' right. Both wizards touched the stout door with the tips of their wands and spoke the password, and then stepped through before the two inside could be aware of their arrival. The barrier thumped back into place behind them, the displaced air and protective charms brushing their robes forward.

"We have visitors, Lucius."

Narcissa Malfoy rose from her chair, hands folded, not a hair out of place, every inch the well-bred hostess. Lucius was far less welcoming. He spun from the tall, narrow window, whatever spell he'd been whispering against the enchanted glass ending with a whine of energy and the smell of sulfur. Eyes narrowed, he'd peered over Severus' shoulder where the door had blended back into the surrounding wall as if he thought he might shove them aside and escape.

While Narcissa wore the same bland, inquisitive expression Severus had seen on her face many times before, Lucius was nearly unrecognizable. His white-blond hair was lank and dull, plastered across his skull. His eyes were sunken within dark circles, his mouth set in a grim line. Perhaps it was the borrowed robes sitting uneasily on his frame, but Severus would swear the wizard had lost a stone in the past few hours. He pressed back against the wall, as far away from Severus as he was able to stand and still be in the same room.

"Are you well, Narcissa?" Severus began. "Is there anything you require?" The house elves had been instructed to spell appropriate food and drink into the locked apartment, but any personal needs beyond that were beyond the creatures.

The witch lifted her chin. "Nothing that you are going to give me, I imagine." Her smile was fleeting. "My son, for instance."

Severus took a step towards her, relieved when Auror Canticle remained behind, giving them the pretense of privacy. "I just came from Draco." He held out a parchment tied with a green cord. "He is well, if a bit bored, and asked me to give you this."

Lucius lunged a step forward before he caught himself, hands quickly shoved into his pockets. He resigned himself to watching his wife take the note in a shaking hand.

She stared into Severus' eyes. "He's here then? Nearby?" she breathed. "He hasn't been –" Narcissa closed her mouth, lips pressed together as if afraid to ask anything else.

"Draco is unharmed. He has not been touched, I promise you." Severus found himself lowering his voice in an attempt to reassure her. He lifted his gaze to Lucius'. "As for his future, well, that remains to be seen."

"Of course." Narcissa nearly crushed the parchment to her chest. A moment later she was glancing around the apartment, distressed. "I'd offer you some tea or refreshment, Severus, but I find myself without my wand …"

Severus' mouth drew down. It seemed he was doomed to consume more tea than anyone in their right mind would want. "Allow me." He cast a few simple spells and summoned a complete tea service on the table set in one corner. Along with the usual accompaniments, he added a decanter half-full of Lucius' favorite brandy.

"Very nice," Lucius rasped, the words laden with bitterness. He cleared his throat. "A condemned man's last meal, Severus? I can't imagine any other reason for this … largesse." Lucius gestured at the comfortable apartment, the warm fireplace, books and parchments on the shelves. "Come now," he strode forward, his words hissing out between clenched teeth, "can we not dismiss this ridiculous civility and get down to the matter at hand? Hm? My incarceration? My death?"

Narcissa flinched at her husband's tirade, losing her grip on a delicate tea cup. Severus hovered it before it could drop to the floor. She placed her hands at her sides, wiping them nervously on the plain dress she was wearing. "Yes, perhaps Lucius is right." She straightened her shoulders. "Say what you've come to say, Severus."

"Very well." He slid his wand into his sleeve and poured three small glasses of brandy. He cradled his in one hand, watching the dark mahogany beverage as he swirled the glass. "Wizarding Children's Services has filed paperwork to remove Draco from your custody. We have not been able to discover a member of the Malfoy family without ties to Voldemort, so his guardianship is still pending." He raised an eyebrow at Lucius. "It is pending on a great many things, actually. Among them, your cooperation with the ministry's investigation and the Wizengamot's decisions. As well as Draco's own testimony."

"Testimony against me?" Lucius grabbed a glass from the table and downed the liquor in one gulp. "You are fools if you think he is able to do so. While I live, Draco is bound to oaths taken in childhood. You know this, Snape."

Severus pressed one hand against the inner pocket of his robe. "I know a great many things, Lucius. About oaths. About Malfoy children and the lengths their parents – and grandparents – have gone to assure their obedience."

Lucius paled until his skin nearly matched the white of his hair. His jaw moved as if he was chewing shouts or curses or mumbled denials. "You couldn't – you have no idea –" he whispered. Narcissa slid to his side, one hand gripping his elbow.

"I know that you can release Draco from his oaths if you choose." This was to be Lucius' first test. Now that he was exposed, his ties to Voldemort revealed to all without any remaining resources to hush up or pay off witnesses, would he look past his own safety to secure his son's? Could he see beyond himself? Make even one selfless decision? 

"His oaths weren't solely to me, you know." If Lucius' clenched his teeth any harder, he'd be left with a mouthful of broken enamel shards.

Indeed. Severus sighed. "Lucius –"

"Do it," Narcissa urged, leaning into Lucius' side. "Release Draco, I beg you. Let him go. Let him have a life, even if you – even if we've sealed our own fates."

"Be quiet," Lucius seethed, shaking her off and stepping away. "Why should I?" His chin lifted arrogantly. "You, Severus Snape, will be able to testify to my crimes. Traitor. Spy. Just as I will be able to testify to yours. We should keep this between us, shouldn't we? Between men?" He waved one hand in dismissal. "Surely, you don't need a child's words to send me to my death."

No, Severus would never ask Draco – or any child – to speak against his father or mother. Not even against the worst criminal or the most twisted murderer. To drag Draco into any kind of culpability for his father's sentence would be torture for the boy. "It is not your crimes that I wish Draco to expose, Lucius. Not anything that you have done. What I want – what the authorities need – is knowledge of what was done to you."

Narcissa's eyes were wide open, both hands pressed against her mouth. 

Lucius remained still, petrified, but with fear and dread, not a spell. He searched Severus' face, his power scrabbling uselessly against his Occlumency shields.

"Even now, you feel it. Beyond the death of the Dark Lord, beneath the terror of what will become of you and your family, the banishment of your ambitions and desires, you feel it." Severus leaned forward. "Voldemort is dead, Lucius. He's taken all of your oaths through the veil with him. The dark rituals that tethered your soul and had been transferred to his clawing grip when Abraxas died –" Severus reached out, his fingers tightening around empty space and then opening, "they have been released."

Lucius shook his head, his eyes closed in denial. "No. You don't – nothing could –"

Narcissa had backed up against the settee and was staring at her husband. "Lucius?"

The wizard stumbled. Severus gestured, and a chair slid beneath Lucius before he could fall.

His head in his hands, Lucius' shoulders shook, mumbled words barely making their way through his fingers. "You don't understand, no one could. Not even Severus Snape." He lifted his face, his eyes dry, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile. "You took the Dark Mark. You were not a spy then, I don't think. You were angry, enraged, it leaked from your very pores. You wanted revenge on your enemies and power and status that you'd never had before. A half-blood, raised in the muggle world," he sneered. "How we laughed behind your back. The Dark Lord had a need for a Potions Master, you see. For a disciple at Hogwarts. That's the only reason he accepted you."

Lucius' words slid through Severus' shields but found no targets in his psyche. After he took the Mark, after his initial rage and desire for vengeance had cooled, Severus had opened his eyes. He'd seen the pureblood sycophants around the throne and recognized that he could never be one of them. "I know. I've always known," he replied. "I admitted it to myself long ago, Lucius. I chose servitude – enslavement – to the Dark Lord. And I chose to leave his side and become a spy. But you?" Severus' tone was gentle. "You had no choice at all."

Severus reached within his robes and set a copy of Potter's notes on the table. Beside it, he laid the plain brown package. 

"You were trapped by your father and grandfather when you were a child. Your will to choose was taken from you by the rituals they'd learned from another powerful dark wizard." Severus held up one hand when Lucius would have dismissed his words with a curse. "We will never know how you would have chosen, Lucius, if allowed to make your own decisions. You might still be sitting here, awaiting your punishment. Or, you might have fled your grandfather's crushing grip and be living quite peacefully, raising your family." A surge of sorrow rose up behind Severus' shields. "But it is not in our power to go back in time and undo all of the things that made us who we are. If we could –" he took a breath, trying to erase the image of Harry Potter sitting in Dumbledore's office, so much older than his years. "If we could," he began again, "I don't know that we'd have the strength to do so. To live it all again."

Lucius had stopped listening. He was staring at the package laid between them, his eyes red rimmed, his throat moving up and down as if he were swallowing cries for mercy. 

Narcissa stirred, frowning. Before she could take a step forward or ask a question, a spell caught her and held her motionless.

Severus turned to glance at Auror Canticle. The witch nodded slowly, her wand aimed at Narcissa's unmoving form. Severus bowed his head in thanks before turning back to the broken man before him.

"You know what it is."

"I know," Lucius murmured. "I hear it calling to me."

Lucius had no questions for Severus, no demands for his sources - how Severus could know about the blood rituals that had been performed on Lucius as a child behind Abraxas Malfoy's formidable wards. Severus closed his eyes. Yes, he could hear the call, now. Now that the package was in Lucius' presence. It grated along his nerves, words just beyond his hearing muttering dark promises. Potter had alluded to the thing's power, mentioned how constant exposure would tear down the most powerful wizard's inner wards. The thing had no connection to Severus, but Lucius –

Lucius looked as if he might fall to literal pieces in front of him. Tears shook from his eyes, his graceful hands clutching each other, denying his need to reach out and take it, to rip off the paper and cast his eyes on the missing piece of his own soul.

'Hunting horcruxes,' Potter had said. Not just those created by Voldemort, casting off shards of his own soul. He'd been hunting this one, as well. The one created when Lucius was forced to kill by his grandfather and father. When, under Abraxas' Imperious Curse, at age nine, Lucius had murdered his own mother.

"I can't," Lucius breathed.

"You can," Severus urged. Abraxas had pledged blood fealty to Voldemort. When he died, any oaths residing with him were immediately transferred to the Dark Lord. Now, the last oath-holder was dead. Lucius was free to act for himself for the first time in nearly forty years. Severus' lips thinned. Perhaps someone would need to teach him how.

Severus summoned another chair for himself and sat, knee to knee, with Lucius, startling the man out of his fixation on the package on the table. "Lucius. Look at me."

The wizard met Severus' gaze and he slipped inside the mind of Lucius Malfoy. Confusion reigned. Scenes of his childhood flittered past, like moving pictures in full color. Anger. Blood. Pain. He heard Lucius crying, screaming, his father berating his weakness. He saw the boy's empty stare as his wand hand lifted and pointed at his mother's chest. He felt the tearing away of a part of his soul and the laughter of his father. Obedience to Abraxas – to Voldemort – became easier and easier. Thoughtless. Automatic. While, within him, the remnant of his soul cringed.

He saw a baby in Lucius' arms. White-blond hair, light grey eyes that glinted silver in the light. Around them, candles burned. From his wheelchair, Abraxas raised a human bone carved with runes, chanting over a goblet that sent black flames into the air.

"Now," the old man ordered. "Do it now, fool!"

His hand shaking, Lucius bared his son's arm and pierced his flesh with a barbed needle. Blood ran down the length of the shaft and dripped into the flames as the baby screamed.

Severus drew back, into Lucius conscious mind. "Lucius. Do you wish to die?"

"No." 

Simple honesty. Nothing else was possible now that Severus stood within the wizard's own mind.

"Do you wish Draco to die?"

"No. Never."

"Do you want him imprisoned in Azkaban?"

"No. Please, no."

A twisted semblance of love rose from Lucius' depths. An image of Draco's face, quiet and soft in sleep. The tot playing with a plushie dragon in his mother's lap. Standing at Abraxas' grave between his mother and father. Relief rushed through Lucius' soul when he looked down at the carved stone. Relief that Draco would be spared from the final ritual. That he could remain whole.

"Will you release Draco from oaths bound to you?"

"Yes. I will. I do."

Lucius' magic acted immediately. Locks opened, windows were thrown wide. A small, pale hand was released from Lucius' hold, a sudden snap of sorrow nearly drowning them both.

One last test, and Severus could withdraw. "Lucius Malfoy, will you take back your soul, and, with it, your responsibilities to act within the law? Will you accept the consequences of your choices, from this day on? Do you turn yourself, your magic, and your knowledge of Death Eater secrets to the Wizengamot to dispose of as they wish? And, if you are spared, do you pledge to respect all others? To do nothing to harm or exploit those weaker than yourself? And to work towards a world where wizards and witches use their powers to protect and serve those around them?"

"I –" Fear broke in a tidal wave within Lucius. Fear of himself. Of his links to darkness. Chains that had held him for so long could not be so easily shaken off, Lucius' conscience screamed.

"They can," Severus whispered. "They will. Believe me, I should know."

Lucius took a gasping breath and gathered the shattered pieces of his mind and heart together. "I will."

The package rose from the table and drifted to Lucius' waiting hands. Severus leaned back, clear of Lucius' mind. He heard Narcissa gasp, released from Canticle's spell.

The brown paper fell away, revealing a square jewelry box covered with dark green velvet. The Malfoy crest was embroidered in gold along the top. Lucius lifted the lid to reveal a three-strand pearl choker. In the center rested a faceted emerald, murky, clouded with restless energy.

Lucius closed his eyes and lowered his right hand to rest against the stone. "I'm sorry, mother," he whispered through his tears.

Severus blinked rapidly at the scene before him. Lucius' form seemed to swell, to fill in – not with flesh and bone, but with something he couldn't comprehend. It was as if a brush smoothed out the edges of the wizard's face, softening him, easing the tension of his muscles, the arrogant lift of his chin, and painted in color along his cheekbones, golden strands among the pale white of his hair. Standing behind him was a ghostly figure, a woman. Dark blond hair tumbled down the back of her soft grey dressing gown. She wore the pearl and emerald choker around her neck.

One hand smoothed down the back of Lucius' hair as she bent to rest her cheek against his. She smiled at Severus, warm and comforting, and then spoke in her son's ear.

"I've never blamed you, darling, so there is nothing to forgive. Now, take care of your lovely wife and my grandson."

"I will," Lucius repeated.


	16. Fifteen Again

Harry's return to Gryffindor was far easier than he'd imagined it would be. Madam Pomfrey had released Harry – finally – just as dinner was being served in the Great Hall. Fantastic timing. Harry managed to slide into a seat next to Hermione just as the food was appearing on the serving platters. 

That usually kept Ron busy for a few minutes.

Hermione's hug was just as he remembered them. Fierce and protective. He'd missed her hugs, her loyalty, the easy friendship and her over-the-top mothering instincts. Harry held on a moment longer than he would have at fifteen, reveling in her love and acceptance. It had been a long time.

That was enough to prompt Hermione's well-developed sense of Harry's mood. "You okay?"

"I am," he answered honestly. Eyebrows rising, Harry laughed and gestured at the banners overhead. "Haven't you noticed? It's a 'New Dawn,'" he proclaimed.

Laughter erupted from the Gryffindors around him. Ron snorted half a slice of roast beef across the table to plop against Seamus' cheek, gravy dripping down his chin. Harry shared a grin and a head-shake with Hermione as that only lit the fire on his friends' celebration. Harry piled a meat pie, mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, and three Yorkshire puddings on his plate while the others were joking around. He was hungry.

That was one thing he remembered clearly from being a teenager the first time. He'd always been hungry. At the Dursleys, at Hogwarts – whether there was ample food at hand or not, Harry's stomach had roiled and tumbled. It was that familiar ache he was feeling now, an emptiness beneath his breastbone. And the subtle voice whispering from within that he should be careful. Don’t eat too much. Don't be greedy. Don't be ungrateful. Don't become Dudley. He remembered days where he didn't eat more than toast and pumpkin juice, anxiety sending waves of cramps through his gut. 

This time around he wasn't going to waste that teen-aged boy metabolism – he'd give Ron a run for his money in the eating department. He was no longer a confused child, teetering on the brink of panic due to the powerful forces ranged against him. A child, thrown into the wizarding world without any data, facing every day as a mad scramble to try to figure out what was expected of him. He glanced over at Ron, his best friend, and the smear of sauce on his chin and the light in his eyes. This time, Harry didn't have to be so careful, so reserved. So worried that anything he might do – everything he might do – would have horrible consequences, would lead to Voldemort's return or Harry's inability to fight him.

"An Animagus, Harry!" Hermione punched him in the shoulder. "I can't believe you didn't tell me! Didn't tell us," she quickly corrected herself. "We could have done it together."

"Yeah, what kind of animal are you, anyway?" Neville spoke up. "Hermione said you were a lynx, but I don't think we have them in England. Do we?"

"He doesn't have to tell us, he can show us!" Ron thrust a buttered roll in his direction. "Go on, Harry. Do it!"

"Not in the middle of dinner, Ronald," Hermione scolded. She craned her neck to stare up at the teachers' table. "That he's not in trouble already is a miracle. Changing in front of all the students would earn him at least a detention."

"Snape's not here again, so probably not," Ron replied, his mouth still full. "C'mon, mate."

"Sorry," Harry answered, sighing. No. Snape was going to be busy for the next few days. Harry gazed at the teachers' table wistfully, catching Minerva's eye. She cocked her head and he nodded absently. "I'm not allowed to transform again until Professor McGonagall has given me some lessons," he continued, distracted. Hopefully, Snape was dealing with Lucius Malfoy. Harry frowned. He needed to speak to the Potions Master, make sure his owls had arrived. 

"Lessons? What do you need lessons for? You've already done it!" Dean Thomas smacked Harry on the back. "Always one step ahead, eh, Harry?"

"Well, that's just the point," Hermione interrupted. "He did it and got caught in his Animagus form for nearly three weeks. I'm sure Harry needs some proper lessons before he should try it again. There's bound to be more to it than he can figure out on his own."

"Yeah, McGonagall's assigned me loads of reading to do. Said she'd have a house elf deliver the books to the Common Room." That should make Hermione happy – more homework always seemed to make Hermione happy. He glanced at his friends. He hadn't treated them well during fifth year. It had been hard on them, his depression, his constant anxiety, his fear to get anyone else involved in the struggle between him and Voldemort. After what happened to Cedric, Harry's nightmares had thrown all of his friends into starring roles as Voldemort's next victims.

He could make up for his isolation, now. Now that Voldemort had been defeated and Ron and Hermione and Sirius and Remus were safe. 

"It was stupid," he offered, making sure Hermione and Ron were listening. "I should have told you, explained better. Voldemort –" he waited for the usual gasps and denials, but they didn't come. "Voldemort," he repeated firmly, "and I had an attachment. Through this." He touched the scar on his forehead. "Since he came back into his power in the graveyard, he could touch me, mentally. See through my eyes. Whisper things into my thoughts. I couldn't find a way to stop it, so, I thought about what Sirius had told me about being Padfoot. How his problems all drifted away."

Hermione covered Harry's hand with hers on the table. "That must have been awful."

"You could have told us, mate," Ron mumbled.

"I should have," Harry agreed. "But, honestly, I didn't know how to tell you – to tell anyone – that it felt like Voldemort had a hold on me. I felt like, if anyone suspected it, it wouldn't be just Dumbledore who was avoiding me, or the people who believed the Prophet and the Ministry accusing me of things."

Ron's eyes narrowed, and he turned to rake Seamus with an angry glare. "Whoever would do a thing like that?"

Several of his other friends seemed to be staring at Seamus, too. Across the table, Seamus was grim, his mouth a tight line. "I've got to apologize, too. I, ah, I should have known that you wouldn't lie about something like _him_ returning. So. Sorry for being a ruddy wanker."

Harry blinked. He'd forgotten that Seamus had turned against him at the beginning of fifth year. It hadn't lasted long – Seamus' mother's fears had a lot to do with it. "No problem, Seamus," he answered easily. "Anyway, being a lynx meant I only really thought cat thoughts, you know? So, I was safe."

"Safe? In the Forbidden Forest?" Neville shook his head. "You have a different definition for 'safe' than I do, Harry."

"That's all over now, though." Ron managed to snag one more chicken leg before the main courses disappeared and the shining serving plates were refilled with sweets. He dropped the chicken on the table, his eyes wide, and reached towards an iced chocolate cake instead. "Ole Voldy's gone, Umbridge is in Azkaban, Sirius is free, and you've got nothing to worry about."

Harry frowned and slid his hand from beneath Hermione's and into his lap. "No. No worries now," he murmured. His stomach churned as his adult memories rumbled for attention behind his inner barriers, like black clouds gathering beyond a mountain range. Around him, teens joked and shoved each other, laughing, teasing, unconcerned about the future. There would be no battle for the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries. None of his friends would return with scars. Sirius would live. He swallowed, a sick feeling rising up in his throat as he took in the Great Hall, whole, unbroken. The tables of happy students, teachers watching over them. There'd be no Battle of Hogwarts. No students crushed in the rubble. Screaming, running, trying to escape the carnage.

It couldn't be this easy. Nothing in Harry's life had been easy. He shivered, a thin blade of fear clawing its way down his spine. He dragged his gaze back to the Gryffindor table. To his friends – his family. He had no idea what would happen next, but, right now, they were happy.

"Hey, Harry!"

He turned to see Padma and Parvati standing between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw table. 

"Is it true? Are they going to let you teach Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Harry smiled. McGonagall had nearly purred as she'd told him of Dolores Umbridge's fate. Dumbledore had, apparently, been quite persuasive assuring Minerva that Harry could step in and 'assist with the very real staffing problem at the moment.' In the hospital wing, once Pomfrey had run an entire regimen of tests, Minerva had suggested she help him with the course-planning during their Animagus study sessions.

"Dumbledore said it's hard enough to find candidates for DADA during the summer holidays, let alone in the middle of term." He glanced around at the faces of his friends, hanging on his every word. "With all this about Voldemort coming out and the best wizards off chasing the last of the Death Eaters, well," he shrugged, laughing, "I guess I was the last resort."

"But, a teacher." Hermione shook her head, frowning. "I mean, you're excellent, really, Harry. But –"

"Oh, don't worry," Harry waved his hands. "Everyone knows I'm not really a teacher." Not in this life, he thought to himself. His most recent memories of classrooms were not from a student's perspective but looking down on a sea of upturned youthful faces. "I'm not going to be allowed to give points – Professor McGonagall made that crystal-clear right off."

The moans and groans were loud around him.

"Dumbledore and Snape will be taking on the NEWT level students for Defense and will likely be guest lecturing in most of the OWL-prep lessons as well," Harry continued, "since those students are the ones who were hurt the most by Umbridge's hateful nonsense. The other teachers will be combining many of the classes into larger groups and doing lectures once or twice a week as they can manage to fit into their schedules. Still, even with all that, there aren't enough hours to go around, so –" he shrugged.

Hermione wasn't convinced. "It still seems strange."

Harry tried not to let her disappointment bother him. He looked her over, the knot of worry on her forehead, the sparkling intelligence behind her eyes. She was brilliant, completely devoted to study and learning. He couldn't blame her for being concerned about her education. Harry felt once again the yearning to have been more like her – more dedicated, more serious as a student. If he'd paid more attention, sought to learn more about his situation while he was surrounded by the wealth of knowledge and experience at Hogwarts, maybe he'd have done better the first time around.

But, if anyone could figure out that Harry was not exactly who he'd always been, it would be Hermione. Harry considered what would be the best way to throw her off the scent.

"'Strange?'" It was Neville who piped up. "Everything about this year has been strange. Voldemort is dead, Professor Snape is a good guy, and Harry is an Animagus! I mean, really, Hermione, is Harry teaching any stranger than a ghost teaching History? Or Professor Trelawny trying to get us to see visions in cold tea leaves?"

The Gryffindors laughed, drawing the attention of the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Harry felt a warmth settle in his chest, chasing away some of his fears. They were so happy – so resilient. They'd shrugged off Umbridge's torture, Cedric's death, and the dark cloud that had been wearing them down all year in no time. He took in a deep breath, reveling, for the moment, in being one of them.

As the laughter and joking settled down, Harry spoke again. "Speaking of Trelawny, I've dropped Divination. Professor McGonagall said it was okay, and would free up my schedule to, uh, what did she call it? 'supervise study sessions in Defense.'" He rolled his eyes. "So, I'm doing two sections of first and second years on Mondays and Wednesdays and third years on Fridays."

"That leaves our regular DADA times for fourth and fifth years." Hermione's face fell. "All of our schedules are going to have to be re-worked, aren't they?"

Harry nodded. "Just be happy this isn't third year when you had to resort to time travel to get to all of your classes." He clenched his jaw at the memory. What had Dumbledore been thinking? Giving a child a Time Turner. It was criminally stupid. That kind of magic was not to be taken so bloody lightly. He should know.

"Want me to round up some Cornish Pixies," Seamus snorted.

Neville shivered dramatically. "I don't think Harry's going to want to use Lockhart as a role model for teaching."

"Or p-p-poor P-P-Prof-f-fessor Quirrell," Dean stood, blinking and stuttering, rubbing his hands together in mockery of their first-year teacher.

"What about Moody?" Lee Jordan leaped onto the bench, left hand over one eye while he brandished his wand with the right. "Who wants to learn to curse like Voldemort? Raise your hands!"

Merlin, they'd had some horrible teachers for Defense, hadn't they? Quirrell, his classroom hung all around with garlic, so they wouldn't pick up the stink of Voldemort's wraith slowly sucking the wizard's life away. Lockhart had been completely useless. And, fourth year, it had been Barty Crouch in the form of Alastor Moody, casting Unforgiveable Curses like sweets across all the desks. Umbridge, with her 'no wand waving' and picture books that belonged in a wizarding pre-school somewhere had been a great pink cherry on top of the awful cake.

Ron snorted. "When you put it that way, Harry's bound to be one of the best teachers any of the students have ever had. Eh, Hermione?"

"I think there's a boggart in the Ravenclaw Common Room." Luna's lazy tones cut through the others. "I quite liked Professor Lupin." She added before turning back to her pudding.

Harry sat back and let the others talk. Maybe this was going to work, he thought. Maybe, this time, Harry could get it right. Protect the innocents. Insist that those in authority didn't give up their children to some tangled web of Dumbledore's imagining. He let his gaze linger on the empty Slytherin table. No child should be thrust into playing a major role in an adult conflict. Forced to choose between their families, their friends, and actions that would scar them forever. 

These people – these young, vital people were amazing. Removing Voldemort had given Ron back his joy, his playfulness. Hermione could go on to study whatever she liked, rather than feel compelled to back Harry up, to devote herself to learning the spells that would help him. He glanced back at Luna and the Ravenclaws. She was smiling at him. He hoped she would still find her way to Neville – those two and their brood of children had been a blessing to the wizarding world.

"Do you think Professor Lupin will come back?" Seamus wondered.

"That would be great," Padma agreed, taking a seat at Harry's right. "I think I learned more in third year – and had more fun – in DADA than in any other year."

The others agreed, laughing away the small detail of Remus being a werewolf. Remus. The sorrow, the guilt and grief at Harry's core gaped wide. Harry would be surprised if Dumbledore hadn't already considered having Remus back to teach DADA. A twinge of disappointment surprised him. He'd been looking forward to teaching again, to encouraging young men and women to do their best, to see the results of their studies. 

He wanted – more than anything – to see Remus again. To see Sirius. To look into their faces, to hear their voices, voices he'd heard only in his nightmares for years. Remus and Sirius, alive and well, whole and strong. Neither one fallen defending Harry. He blinked, looking down at his lap to hide the tears in his eyes. If Dumbledore wanted Remus back to teach he might have already sent for him.

Seeing Remus would be wonderful, but it might just break Harry's heart.


	17. Memories of Me

The winding stairway leading to the headmaster's office carried Harry upwards. Its movement was slow and stately, sliding through the tower passage without groan or creak. A cool breeze blew down from the top, ruffling his hair, and Harry raised his head, eyes closed, to revel in the sharp, clean scent. Like the ocean. Or the air after a thunderstorm.

Along the walls of the tower, paintings appeared, frames of carved ebony, gold, and driftwood enclosing scenes of thestrals flying through the starry night, a dragon craning its neck over its single egg, and a stormy sea, waves crashing against the lip of a craggy cave. Harry frowned. He'd never noticed the paintings here before. As he rose higher, the scenes changed, the dramatic paintings becoming moving photographs filled with people that Harry knew.

Dumbledore and Minerva stood before a familiar home, the headmaster holding a squirming bundle. Harry cowered inside his cupboard as Dudley stamped on the stairs above him. Hogwarts letters flew through the letter slot. Hagrid escorted eleven-year-old Harry through Diagon Alley. Ron and Hermione, Fred and George and Neville laughed and talking in the Gryffindor Common Room.

Harry smiled as his memories spun out onto canvas and paper. Some weren't as pleasant. Quirrell attacking him. Tom Riddle standing over Ginny's pale figure. Cedric's dead eyes staring up at the night sky in the graveyard.

"Harry. You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

Sirius leaned against the edge of his frame, one thumb in his watch pocket, the familiar teasing light in his eyes. He looked down at his clothes. "Huh. Same suit I died in. I always hated this suit. You remember, don't you?"

"Don't tease the boy, Padfoot."

Across from Sirius' picture, Remus was just rising from a chair by the fire, a book in his hands. The background of his picture seemed to be a cozy library. "He's not James, you know," Remus continued, clucking his tongue.

The stairway drew Harry higher, away from the two portraits, the men enjoying their friendly argument. Harry turned, trying to hurry back down to speak with them. To apologize. To beg their forgiveness for his stupid mistakes. Like a muggle escalator, the stairs kept on and the pictures fell behind, the voices becoming tinny, the words muffled.

Around the next twist, the pictures were grouped together, a dozen or more set in clumps on either side of the stairs. The sounds echoed from the stone walls and Harry closed his eyes, trying to shut out the scenes he knew were coming. It didn't work. The figures stood out clearly behind his eyes.

Dumbledore falling through the night sky, his bright robes fluttering around him like broken wings. Hedwig, blood bright red against her pale feathers. Moody destroyed in a thunderclap of green. Hermione screaming as Bellatrix Lestrange cut her. Luna's bruised face. Dobby –

The next group of pictures came into focus. The Carrows cackling over Neville and Seamus, using fists and wands to beat the rebellion out of them. Hogwarts' walls and towers crumbling, holes gouged out by angry spells, huge blocks of stone crushing those caught underneath. Lavender, her long hair choked with dust, motionless in the courtyard. George sobbing, doubled over with grief, clutching his twin's body. Remus and Tonks, still, lifeless, hands reaching out for each other in death, the sound of an inconsolable child weeping louder and louder until the image shook.

Severus, a ragged, bloody hole in his neck pouring out blood, one silvery tear dripping down his cheek. 

Harry grabbed at the walls on each side, pushing hard, trying to stop the upward movement of the staircase. "No, no," he muttered, breathing hard, his muscles trembling with effort, heat building up in the palms of his heads, the skin chafing, then burning, then peeling off in bloody shreds. He didn't want to see anything else. Not the next image – or the next – or the next. 

The staircase moved on. 

The pictures had changed to black and white, stark and grim against the warm stones of the castle. Hermione speaking for an auditorium of judges, her face pinched, all compassion drained from her spirit as she sentenced wizard after wizard to the Dementor's Kiss. The last argument between her and Ron when she'd removed her wedding ring and transfigured it into heavy shackles before dropping it at his feet. Draco Malfoy standing in rags before the Wizengamot, his head shaved, a long gash over one eye, his grey eyes dimmed, his spirit broken by his parents' executions and his own long years of imprisonment.

Harry let his bloody hands hang at his sides as the next frame came into view. The canvas was life-sized, the frame made of bleached human bone. The staircase slowed until it was barely moving.

A single figure stood at the edge of a busy highway. Robed and hooded, it raised its wand in one hand, and, with the other, it pulled a mask down across its face. A stylized skull. A Death Eater mask.

Heart pounding, Harry waited. He knew what was coming. Any second now the grey muggle car would round the corner, the couple inside smiling, happy, after their week at the seashore. A week away from the wizarding world, away from crowds or questions, from fame or celebrity. Harry's chest tightened, his breaths coming in short, hard pants as tears started in his eyes, blurring the image into shapeless forms. He heard the crack of the spell. The squeal of tires. The clang of metal. The crunch of bone.

His eyes cleared to reveal a patch of grass, the dark trunks of trees, a car flipped over to lay on its crumpled roof, both doors wide open. In the black and white image, smoke curled from the wreck and fog lay along the grass like a blanket. Only one color blazed from the canvas. Red. A pool of red that, at first, mimicked the corona of her hair. Until it didn't.

Two other figures emerged from the edges to stand over her body. Harry looked into his own green eyes, his healed body, blood drying on his chest, his face. Beside him, another robed figure grew up from the fog, skeletal and regal.

"No, please, not her. Take me. I can't –"

Harry choked out the words along with his image, the pain in his chest a real echo of the injuries he'd suffered in the crash. Deadly injuries.

Death turned to face the Harry on the staircase. "I have no power over you. Not here. Not now."

He recognized the same words Death had spoken on that highway. His image slid the ring from his finger and threw it at Death's feet.

"Take it! I don't want it! Use it to bring her back!"

"The Resurrection Stone cannot be used that way again." Death shook its head. "Not since the Hallows have been combined in you, Master."

The staircase began moving again. Harry jerked with the movement, falling to his knees. Yes, please, he thought. Take me away from here. Away from this. But, as the stairs began to slide around the bend, he couldn't help looking back.

Death waited, a few steps below him.

"You cannot outrun your memories," it said.

Harry stood in the headmaster's office, his robes elegant and well-pressed. He lifted his hands, turning them back and forth. No trace of his skinned palms remained, the faint outline of the words Umbridge had forced him to write still visible on the back of one hand. The aura of the office settled a sense of calm and peace across Harry's spirit. He brushed his hand across the back of a chair set before the desk. How many times had he sat here as a student, confused, angry, grieving as Dumbledore uttered carefully chosen words.

He climbed the few steps up to the desk. There was no stand beside it for Fawkes. No cluster of ticking and spinning devices. The cabinet that once hid a Pensieve was missing. As Harry stood behind the desk, the office had changed completely from Dumbledore's study to Harry's uncluttered sanctuary.

"Welcome back, Headmaster Potter."

He smiled, turning to face Dumbledore's portrait. "Sir."

"Hogwarts recognizes you, you know."

"Does it?" Harry leaned back against his desk, arms folded across his chest.

"Yes, indeed. Hogwarts always welcomes its own." The wizard was seated in the chair Harry had just passed, a silver basket of lemon drops and a steaming cup of tea on the table beside him. In his lap was an open book, a large sketch on one page of three brothers revealing it to be The Tales of Beadle the Bard. "It is very nice to have you back, Harry."

"I was never really gone," he replied.

"No." Dumbledore frowned, his lips pursed. "It will be difficult, being two people at once."

"I'm not sure it can be done. Especially here," another voice drawled from a portrait to the left of Dumbledore's.

"Severus," Harry sighed.

The wizard tilted his head in Harry's direction. "I suppose I have you to thank for this … feeble existence." Severus raised his hands and waved long, graceful fingers at the portrait's frame before linking them together again. "How you managed it –"

"Actually," Harry interrupted, "it didn't take much. As Albus has said, Hogwarts recognizes its own. Your portrait showed up as soon as the Ministry released your true story. Of course, you were silent for about twenty years, or so Headmistress McGonagall insisted." He smiled. "As soon as I took over the office you began snidely correcting me."

"I'm sure I could not resist the temptation," Severus replied, his dark eyes gleaming.

Suddenly Harry was seated behind his desk and Severus and Dumbledore were sharing glasses of Firewhiskey in the seats opposite him.

"You don't believe it can be done, Severus?"

Severus shook his head. "I admit I am not an expert on the difficulties of time travel or personality displacement. It is similar to possession, is it not?"

"No," Harry blurted. "That – that can't be right."

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses. "I do not believe so, as the mind and spirit are identical to those residing in Harry's younger self, if a bit expanded. And that, indeed, is the problem."

"Because Hogwarts has been changed." Severus was nodding.

"It has. Everything has been changed."

They were ignoring Harry. Talking as if he weren't there. It seemed all too familiar. Harry squeezed his hands into fists.

"So, how will he hope to accomplish this strategy?"

Dumbledore sighed. "He may need to make adjustments."

"What kind of adjustments?" Harry rose from his chair to loom threateningly over the other two. "I'd like to know exactly what the two of you are talking about. I believe I have that right, especially as now I am the headmaster here."

"Hush, child," Dumbledore brushed off Harry's angry demands. "We know what's good for you."

"Yes, be quiet, boy. What could a child of fifteen know of these things?" Severus scoffed, looking down his nose at Harry. "You look ridiculous."

Harry found himself eleven years old again, standing before the Mirror of Erised. In the mirror he was dressed in Dumbledore's robes of lilac and gold – they hung on him like curtains, the headmaster's fringed hat slipping down over one eye. Behind him, Severus and Dumbledore stepped closer, each wearing an impatient expression. 

"You're just going to have to trust us, Harry. You do trust us, don't you? A child should trust his teachers to know what's best. What's best – we know what's best – 

"Harry!" 

A hand clutched his shoulder and Harry had his wand pointed at his attacker's face before he'd opened his eyes.

"Hey, it's only me."

"Ron?"

Harry lowered his wand, blinking in the harsh light of Ron's Lumos. "What are you doing here?" He tried to shake off the dread the dream had twisted through his bones. The dark red curtains around his bed were ajar, revealing other young faces peering at him. Neville. Seamus. Dean. His old friends.

He dropped his head back onto his pillow. Hogwarts. Time travel. 

"Waking you up from a nightmare, of course." Ron's expression was puzzled. "It's kinda my job."

"Yeah, mate, you were shouting about not trusting someone, not knowing what they were talking about." Seamus was sitting cross-legged on his bed.

"Sounds pretty calm by way of your usual nightmares," Neville added, rolling over and pulling his covers up to his chin.

"No bloody Voldemort this time?" Ron urged.

"No," Harry managed to respond. "No bloody Voldemort." Just two interfering old men who couldn't seem to get it through their heads that Harry wasn't a child any more.

"Well, that's good then. All right now?"

"Yeah, thanks. Go back to bed, Ron."

When the noises around his bed settled, Harry closed his eyes and forced his mind to calm. He concentrated on building up his inner wards, brick by brick, stacking them securely until the walls were thick and tall. He polished them until they gleamed like metal, fortified and unbreakable. Something – someone - here at Hogwarts was trying to break through his control. His Occlumency wards should be stronger than this, even in sleep. 

Harry swept his memories back behind the wards. Memories both sweet and miserable. Of friends. Mentors. Sirius. Remus. Of love and loss. Ginny. Hermione. Of weakness and want. The graveyard. The mirror. 

He would not allow anyone to breach his mind again.


	18. Slytherin Returns

"You don't have to do this."

Severus stepped up behind his godson, meeting the clouded grey eyes in the mirror over Draco's shoulder. The boy was frowning, his trembling hands fidgeting with his crooked tie. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have grown there overnight, deep and bruised, a reflection of his weary soul. His robes were immaculate, as usual, but instead of offering Draco a layer of arrogance and elegance, they seemed to wrap him in misery.

His hands on the boy's shoulders stilled his nervous movements. Severus slid the tie from Draco's fingers and retied it, settling it against his throat before adjusting his collar. He raised one eyebrow at the boy's image, his expression demanding answers.

"I do." Draco finally replied, his voice low and even. "I can't hide down here forever."

"I was unaware that one or two days to come to grips with the changes in your … situation … constituted 'forever.'" Severus crossed his arms to keep himself from holding onto the boy, from offering more comfort that Draco could handle.

Draco thrust a hand through his unruly hair. "I have to. Staying here, rereading mother's letter." He cut himself off, the sharp click in his throat revealing the tight hold he kept on his emotions. "Sitting here, thinking. Remembering. I can't – I can't think about it anymore." He swept from the mirror and paced around the small confines of the apartment to which he'd been moved.

"Draco. You have had no more than twelve hours in which to come to terms with what has happened. With your father's – and grandfather's – deceit. Their complete control over you."

"No." Draco thrust out one hand to stop Severus' speech. The sight of his empty, ringless hand startled him and he closed it into a fist. "No," he repeated after a deep, slow breath. "It wasn't complete. You – no one can absolve me of my own desire for fame. For glory. For the chance to become a great, feared wizard and stand at my father's right hand above all others."

Severus nodded, watching the boy from half-lidded eyes. "Correct. You had not yet been damaged as your father had been. There is more than a touch of arrogance and ambition in your make-up, Draco, but you must put aside this self-loathing. This blame."

"How?" The boy turned desperate, pleading eyes onto Severus. "I remember. I remember every time. Every time I chose evil." He gestured with one arm, his face screwed up in a grimace. "Petty, vindictive things. Like stealing from the other Slytherins who had far less money than I did. Picking on, teasing, Merlin, torturing other students. Kicking the House Elves, beings who couldn't possibly fight back. Spewing filthy slurs and then telling my father every bloody thing I could weasel out about his enemies. And," he laughed, dark and bitter, "who weren't his enemies? Dumbledore. Potter. McGonagall. The Weasleys, Hagrid, Granger – selling him stories about other Slytherins – about you – when I thought they might buy me a moment of regard, a single word of praise, or a new trinket or jewel."

He turned away, hands braced on the small counter between kitchen and sitting room. Severus tightened his lips at the sight of his godson's grief, the way his thin frame shook with the storm of his emotions. Since his father had released Draco from his oaths, since Lucius had – with Narcissa's and Severus' help – performed the rituals that would retract the blood-binding spells on Draco's mind and heart, the child had been suffering with his memories. Memories that were clear for the first time in the young man's life, unmarred by spells that eased guilt and removed moral objections. Spells that had kept Draco in a haze of pride and deceit since his birth. One day, one day very soon, Voldemort would have demanded that the oaths Lucius held be turned over to him and Draco would have been as damaged – as unredeemable – as his father.

If there had been no other change – if Potter's return had achieved nothing other than Draco's release from bondage, Severus would be forever in the wizard's debt.

"This is why I believe you should wait to return to school. You simply have not had time to understand what has happened. To explore the injuries to your psyche." Severus stepped forward as if to take hold of Draco's shoulders and turn him around. He stopped himself when the boy tensed, anticipating the unwanted show of caring. Severus sighed. "It will be difficult enough to face those who consider every Slytherin criminal – traitor – evil," Severus growled the word, "unfairly. If you are still struggling with your own identity when you again show your face, Draco, it will be torturous."

Draco straightened, flinging his lank, unruly hair away from his face before he turned. "Aren't we all faced with that? All Slytherins?" His control was thin, barely holding across the boy's inner turmoil, but it was there. "Aren't we all trying to figure it out? To understand what's happened? 'Struggling with our own identities'?" He shrugged, the motion a faint echo of his former arrogance. "The others already think that we're all evil, that we are escaping our deserved punishment to stay here. I'm no different from Parkinson. Or Lawrence. Or Robbins."

"You are different." This time Severus did reach out, gripping Draco's shoulders. "You are Draco Malfoy. The son of his father. Aligned to darkness." He shook his head, his right hand barely brushing Draco's hair. "And these outward changes will not be seen as the unbinding of oaths, the release of blood-bound shackles, but as a show. A pretense. Like your father's claim of being under the Imperious Curse during the last war." He frowned, his own control threatening to buckle. "Draco, I beg you, wait."

Draco lifted his chin, his once white-blond hair shimmering, the wide streaks of gold gleaming against the light brown underneath. 

"I never noticed how much you resemble your mother," Severus added, smiling.

"I want to stand with the Slytherins. Today, especially." 

The boy's posture made him appear as a martyr walking proudly towards his pyre.

Severus lowered his head, eyes closed, his heart aching. "If that is your wish, I will not stop you. Far too many people have denied you your own will, Draco. I will not become one of them."

"Thank you, Severus," the boy whispered.

He couldn't seem to make himself let go. "You will come to me immediately if you need assistance. Immediately." He tightened his grip for a moment. "I've told each of your housemates the same."

As he had anticipated, the last statement gave Draco an excuse to comply. He nodded, meeting Severus' gaze. 

"Very well," Severus checked the time with his wand and strode to the warded door. "Bring your books. We will lead the house into the Great Hall together."

\- - -

Slytherin House entered last, to sudden silence. The mutterings and whispered curses began as Severus and Draco passed down the Hall towards the front. Severus did not glance towards the young wizard at his side, he knew what he would see. The practiced sneer was almost believable, belied by pale, drained features, his head raised as if wearing his new color proudly. When the children had all reached their seats, Severus nodded, releasing Draco to sit with his housemates, before he mounted the steps to reach his place with the other teachers.  
Parkinson had saved a seat next to her for Draco and gestured, but the boy remained stubbornly at the head of the table. There was plenty of room, plenty of empty spaces at the green and silver table. Severus' gaze touched on each one as he slid into his seat, reading off each name within his mind, and renewing his personal pledge to check on each and every one in the next few days.

Finally, Severus aimed a glare at the Gryffindors. They would be the loudest, surely, in their demands for vengeance against his Slytherins. Many were still turned in their seats, staring at the Slytherin table, most focused on Draco. Including, he realized, Potter. But, unlike the other students, Potter seemed dumbfounded. Emotions chased themselves across that open, childish face – surprise, relief, and something that looked very much like gratitude. Severus tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. The boy looked like he was about to cry.

Dumbledore stepped to the golden podium and rapped twice with his wand, disrupting the tense atmosphere of the Great Hall. 

"Good morning, students, good morning. Now. If I could have your attention, there are quite a few announcements."

Severus had never heard the hall quite so still.

"First of all, welcome back to Slytherin House." The old man nodded his head towards the green and silver table. "And thank you for your patience as the ministry authorities finished their business with some of your friends and families." Dumbledore raised a hand as a few muttered words crept from the other tables. "The rest of the school will be relieved to know that all of Voldemort's supporters that had some attachment to Hogwarts have been apprehended and detained for trial. Be assured that your fellow schoolmates are no danger to you."

Dumbledore's pleasant demeanor changed abruptly. "I speak to you now as both your Headmaster and as the Grand Mugwump of the Wizengamot. Hogwarts School finds itself at the center of the current situation. The death of Voldemort was discovered by one of our own, Professor Severus Snape."

Severus stiffened. He had not been aware that Dumbledore would be calling him out personally. The interfering old wizard had kept his intentions to himself – as usual. He'd known Severus would not want to be singled out in any manner.

"As many have now realized, Professor Snape has been my trusted right-hand for many years, serving the difficult and extremely dangerous role of spy within Voldemort's Death Eaters' ranks. It was he who discovered the dark wizard's body in his abandoned manor. It was he who brought it back to me at Hogwarts. For this reason, the school has been chosen as the current home for the Wizengamot, those who have and will continue to make decisions concerning wizards and witches accused of ties to Voldemort and his followers." He paused, hands folded together above the podium as if he was in deep reflection. "It is a daunting burden," he shared quietly, "filled with pitfalls and traps that even the most dedicated and careful wizard could find themselves falling into."

Dumbledore leaned forward, his voice lowered as if sharing a secret with the students. "We shall need all the help we can get. We shall need time, freedom from distractions, and as much cooperation as possible. As such," he continued, straightening, "the castle's wards have been renewed and strengthened." He raised his arms to encompass the entire school. "The very walls and hallways, the outbuildings and grounds, the stones themselves have been charmed to promote truth, teamwork, and patience. Those who reside here will find it very difficult to speak ill of each other, to taunt or tease or bully, and will find it impossible to do each other harm."

Severus nodded. So that's what the old codgers had been doing. He'd seen the members of the Wizengamot tottering all over the school, from the Astronomy tower to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He'd assumed it had been an inspection or tour, something to keep the wizards and witches occupied while the Aurors did their work. All magical persons knew that the Wizengamot's chambers were spelled with similar charms, as well as those promoting justice, mercy, and wisdom. It was fitting that, in a school where children resided, those particular concepts had been simplified into truth, patience, and teamwork.

One hand shot up from the Gryffindor table. Severus managed – just – to squelch the instinct to roll his eyes at Miss Granger's forwardness.

"Yes, my dear?" Dumbledore was far more polite, of course.

"Will we be unable to practice spells, then? It's just that," she looked flushed, her hands fidgeting with her robes, "we're already so far behind in Defense for our OWLs."

"There will be provisions made in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes, and in approved study sessions. You have merely to see your teacher or Head of House for the appropriate time-sensitive approval. The Wizengamot will modify the restrictions as they see fit."

Granger nodded sharply and resumed her seat. Severus snorted as he watched her house-mates shoot flabbergasted looks in the girl's direction. A moment later he realized that Potter was ignoring his friends and staring up at the teachers' table, at him, his jaw tight, his eyes dark with rage. Confused, Severus allowed the next statements from the headmaster to fade. What had infuriated the boy?

When the realization swept over him, Severus sat back in his chair abruptly. Hogwarts had been charmed to engender cooperation, to protect the students from teen-aged flights of anger or vengeance. That was well and good, it would serve to keep his Slytherins from any damage from the other houses. But Dumbledore had also said that the castle wards had been strengthened to promote truth.

Severus chewed over the implications. Dumbledore had agreed to Potter's carefully crafted story. He'd repeated the story of finding Voldemort's body just now to the entire student body. That, in itself, was a lie. A small one – Dumbledore did not say that he did not know who killed Voldemort, simply that Severus had found the body and returned it to Hogwarts. Just how far would these truth spells reach? Would they compel complete truth or merely respond to outright and obvious lies?

No wonder Potter was angry. The boy's – the wizard's – entire existence was now a lie.

He caught Potter's eye and deliberately blanked his expression, his eyebrows twitching upward. 'Do as I do,' Severus mouthed, relaxing both hands on the table. He drew in a deep breath and raised his Occlumency shields. Mental barriers and locked inner wards might preserve Potter's identity. If he had attained the skill to support the spells needed to keep his adult memories behind those walls, the truth-charms that now resided within the stones of Hogwarts might not be strong enough to reach past. In the headmaster's office, Potter had been aware when Severus had raised his shields – hopefully, even at this distance, the wizard would follow Severus' lead.

Potter's mouth tightened, the cords of his neck standing out. Severus caught his breath at the boy's red-rimmed eyes, the exhaustion clearly written across his pale features. As if Potter spoke into his ear, he heard the angry, strained words.

_"Don't you think I've tried that?"_

Legilimency. Potter had planted the statement within Severus' mind - had crossed his own impenetrable Occlumency barriers. Severus allowed his eyes to drop closed and took stock of his own internal wards. Potter should not have slipped in so easily. No one should be able to find a hairline crack in Severus' barriers. Not even Voldemort had gained entrance.

Mere seconds later, he stared back at the fierce green eyes, his own almost certainly matching Potter's in intensity. Severus' barriers were tattered - not completely useless, his mind open to anyone sending a curious gaze in his direction - but hardly could they be called impenetrable. 

He could hardly keep himself from baring his teeth at Dumbledore. The new wards must be laced with the strongest truth-speaking enchantments known to wizard-kind. What had the old fool done now? 

"… schedules will be delivered to your Common Rooms after breakfast. Your classes will resume after lunch." The headmaster continued to speak, unaware that at least two of his listeners were staring daggers at him, front and back. "Please be patient with your teachers – we will also be struggling with the new schedules and the need to take up some of the Defense Against the Dark Arts load. As it is Thursday, we will have only a day and a half before the weekend. We expect many of your parents and guardians to attend our festivities – each Quidditch team will have a time slot for practicing on Saturday, which will be open to spectators, and you'll be happy to know that our Gamekeeper, Hagrid, will be returning Friday evening with many remarkable trinkets and treasures he's collected on his travels. Sunday lunch will be a bit of a Hogwarts Open House, open to every student, family, friends, as well as the members and spouses of the Wizengamot."

"As for now, standard Hogwarts rules apply. The library is open for those inclined to study, as are the greenhouses, the Astronomy tower, and the Owlery. The Black Lake and Hagrid's Hut are off limits for the foreseeable future. Students are free to mingle as they wish, however," Dumbledore's voice rose as the students became aware that there was no more information to be had and began whispering among themselves, "I remind you that every student seated here has been accepted by the Hogwarts Board of Governors, the Wizengamot, and myself, personally. I will not tolerate revenge, false accusations, or attempts at settling scores."

Severus hissed a curse beneath his breath. As if the new wards would allow a false accusation to even form in a child's mind, let alone be spoken into the air.

"Do I make myself clear? Hogwarts is united. One school, four houses, many individuals, but each one accepted and safe. Are we all in agreement?" The quiet command of the headmaster's voice drew all attention back to himself. At a subtle gesture from McGonagall, the Heads of Houses rose as one. 

"Gryffindor," Minerva snapped, lifting both hands in the air. Her students shuffled to their feet. "The Headmaster has asked you a question. What is your answer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, Headmaster."

"Right."

"Okay."

The voices clambered over one another, confused and murmuring, until Minerva finally nodded.

Flitwick was next, his Ravenclaws catching on a bit quicker and giving their answers before he was required to ask the question. Sprout's Hufflepuffs put their hands on their hearts and pledged happily.

Severus pursed his lips and stared at Draco Malfoy, sitting at the head of the Slytherin table. That much, at least, Severus and his Slytherins could agree to. 

Draco rose, and, with one movement, each member of Slytherin joined him, standing in place, backs straight and eyes forward. 

Draco spoke for all. "Slytherin House agrees." He bowed his head towards Dumbledore. "Thank you, sir."

"No need for thanks, Slytherin." Dumbledore tilted his head to gaze over his half-glasses. "Any student who looks for help here at Hogwarts will always receive it."

"Now," the headmaster continued, hands raised. "Let us enjoy our breakfast." 

Severus had no taste for it. He saw that Potter felt the same as he pushed his plate away and made to stand. Severus sent a tentative tendril of thought towards him, remembering how his attempt at Legilimency in Dumbledore's office had been rebuffed. This time, whether Potter fought him or not, Severus's link succeeded.

_"Wait,"_ he suggested to the furious boy. _"Eat something. Try to remain calm. Meet me in my office after the meal. We shall approach Dumbledore together."_

Potter met his gaze, trembling with anger, and managed a nod. 

Severus then attempted to follow his own bloody advice. Chewing the soft-boiled eggs with gusto, he stared blankly at the pennants hanging from the walls and ceiling. A new dawn, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of your interesting comments. I appreciate you! A few from me: this story is my own, obviously AU because, hey, time travel!, not compliant!, Animagus!, etc. It is not meant to fix every reader's problems with how Rowling dealt with adults or children. It is my imagining of a Harry, returned from a time of witch hunts and cruelty, and how he desperately wants to save his friends and even some who were his enemies. If you see things differently, you're entitled to your opinion - but I'm entitled to bring my story along the way I see fit, don't you think?


	19. Honesty

After breakfast, Harry excused himself from Ron and Hermione, implying that his meeting wasn't just with Snape, but with McGonagall. _They_ were going to sketch out lesson plans for the next week or two of Harry's new DADA classes. He'd felt the honest truth shunting forward in his mind, trying to break through his control as he grumbled about being summoned to Severus' office when he could have been hanging out in Gryffindor Tower. The interference was growing. First his dreams, then his waking mind, and now his speech. Harry found himself snapping his mouth shut when more wanted to slip out.

Hermione wanted to help, of course, just as she'd helped him set up Dumbledore's Army. It had been difficult looking into her earnest gaze and refusing. Hermione had been the force behind the DA. Before she'd even approached Harry with the idea in their fifth year, she had researched spells they could teach themselves and had set up the schedules and study groups. She'd charmed the galleons to coordinate meetings. Without her, the DA would never have existed. Without her particular combination of stubbornness and encouragement, Harry would never have stood in front of a group of Hogwarts students and dared to teach them anything. He owed her. He owed Hermione and Ron so much.

"I'm sorry." Harry had spoken softly. Honestly. "You've already given me the bones of a DADA curriculum, Hermione. The first few weeks will be a review for us," he'd gestured between them, "adding in the theoretical, the origins of spells and the magical abstracts behind the practical - that's the kind of work I need teachers for. They've got all those higher-level texts locked away, I'm sure." Yes, he knew exactly where they were stored in the teachers' study room.

"Sure, mate," Ron had agreed. Meeting with teachers – voluntarily - was never going to be on Ron's agenda. "Sounds straight-up boring to me. As long as we're working on DA stuff, I'll wager you've got it figured out."

"Those theories can be very difficult," Hermione had argued, frowning. "But, Harry's right. He's going to need some of the teachers' books and texts. Once you have them you'll let us help you work it all out, I'm sure."

"Of course. Where would I be without you two?" 

As Ron and Hermione had walked away, Hermione throwing him assessing looks over her shoulder, Harry had smiled. Where, indeed? Without Hermione's gifts, her superior knowledge and spell-casting, without Ron's support, his loyalty – tested and ragged, sometimes, but ultimately rock-hard – Harry wouldn't have survived the first Death Eater attack. He knew what a life without their friendship felt like. He'd lived it for the past fifteen years. Never again, he promised himself.

He closed his eyes and dropped his shoulders. The careful wards he'd set around his adult memories after his nightmare were thin. Old memories slipped in easily – old memories, old attitudes. Regrets and grief. Harry had been determined not to reveal his changed nature to his friends. He was still sure that the adult memories would fade, that he'd become more and more the teenager he'd once been, able to fit in with Ron and Hermione and the rest without any effort. Without the risk of telling them.

_'Risk to whom?'_

An inner voice rose from the depth of Harry's memory. A voice from another time, another place, another life. Harry didn't bother chasing down the moment – he recognized it easily. After all those hours spent in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts, secluding himself from anyone who reminded him of pain and grief and loss, with only this man and a few others looking over his shoulder, how could he not? This was the voice Harry couldn't distance himself from. The man's unwanted insights into Harry's motivations and actions had been precise, skillful - sharp barbs laden with the weight of his own lifetime of regret and self-doubt. 

Severus Snape's portrait had never given him a moment of peace.

No, Harry corrected himself. That wasn't true. Harry had found peace as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Those eight years had healed many of his wounds. And, since honesty was the watchword of the day, he admitted that Severus' portrait had a lot to do with it. Severus' comments had not been meant to wound, not after his passing. They'd been meant to find the still wounded parts of Harry's soul and help them to heal.

He headed towards the Potion Master's office. Coming back here to face a Severus Snape who still loathed him, who had taken an oath to protect Harry because of guilt and desperation but couldn't bear to treat the eleven-year-old child like a human being – it had been a shock. Harry had almost forgotten the sneering, dismissive demeanor, the dark hatred that burned behind Severus' eyes during his Potions classes. The threats. The spitting anger. The rage-filled attacks on Harry's mind during those torturous Occlumency lessons.

"Lessons," Harry muttered under his breath. It was a wonder he'd ever been able to master the art after the brutal psychic assaults Severus had subjected him to. Those lessons – they would have been starting up soon. Right after Arthur Weasley's attack in the Department of Mysteries. Harry nodded. This year, Arthur would be spending the Christmas holidays at the Burrow with his family, not recovering in hospital or at Grimmauld Place. 

Harry stopped short before the last turn. Grimmauld Place. Sirius. By now, Sirius must be free – released from his continued imprisonment within those musty, hated walls. Harry had left Pettigrew – among others – stunned and immobilized at Voldemort's manor. Fire curled in Harry's veins. Pettigrew. His parents' betrayer. Hunched and shivering at the point of Harry's wand, the rodent had tried to transform, to escape as he had beneath the Whomping Willow. His feeble magic had been no match for Harry's. But, this time, when Pettigrew had begun to grovel, willing to give up any information if Harry was to show mercy, Harry didn't allow the silver arm to finish him off. This time it obeyed Harry's orders and crushed Pettigrew's wand to dust before locking him into an unbreakable embrace, charmed to release the wizard only when he was in the charge of the Aurors.

He moved forward around the last corner and approached Severus' office. The door was open, the tall Potions Master waiting in the doorway to close it behind Harry.

"What did the old manipulator do?" Harry demanded, turning to face the other wizard. He dropped all semblance of bland fifteen-year-old and allowed his frustration free rein. "He's got the old boys and girls in the Wizengamot wrapped around his finger. The new wards weren't their idea, I'd bet anything on that."

"I tend to agree," Severus drawled, hands on his hips beneath his teaching robes. "Dumbledore's mind has always been razor sharp. I have not won a game of Wizards' Chess with him in my entire life."

Harry snorted. "He can see too many moves ahead."

"Exactly. But –" Severus tilted his head, "we must not give in to useless emotion if we are to find a way to combat this persistent _honesty_."

Severus spoke as if the word was tainted with poison. It almost covered the insult he'd thrown Harry's way.

Harry met Severus' dismissive gaze. "Yes, thank you," he returned with just as much spite, "because throwing a tantrum was going to be my next move. It worked so well for me in the past, you know, railing about the injustice of Dumbledore's actions. Yelling. Breaking things. It was almost like I was a child, then, and had no other recourse for my 'useless emotions' after I'd been continually attacked or possessed or was forced to watch Cedric and Sirius die."

The two stood, measuring each other, for a dozen heartbeats, the old animosity struggling for a foothold in each wizard's spirit. The slight nod Severus gave him was enough. For now.

Harry walked to the chair set before Severus' desk and grasped the back with both hands. "How far does the charm go? Have you tested it?" He shook his head. "It's strong enough to work against my Occlumency shields. That's bloody formidable."

"Obviously." Severus did not take his seat behind the desk but moved towards a cabinet set against the back wall. With one hand on the silver handle, he paused and narrowed his eyes. "Was that the point, do you suppose, or an unhappy accident?"

"'Accident?' With Dumbledore?"

"Indeed." Jaw clenched, Severus murmured over the cabinet and touched it with his wand to release its wards. He opened the door, pulled out one drawer, and swept towards his desk, several stacks of parchment clutched to his chest. "That seems unlikely."

Harry recognized his hand-writing. Relief replaced his frustration for the moment. "Good. It looks like they're all there. If –" he raised his gaze to Severus'.

"I've already destroyed the other. After I transferred your package to its rightful owner, of course."

"How is he?" Harry had seen the changes in Draco with his own eyes. He knew that the blood bonds between the boy and his father had been broken – one way or the other. But that could mean any number of things had happened, including the possibility that Lucius Malfoy was dead.

"Lucius is – changed." Severus turned his gaze away. "Again, I find myself forced to deal with a person I thought I knew in a completely different manner than the one I was accustomed to. After learning of his childhood, of the torture his father and grandfather put him through –"

"Don't pity him," Harry insisted. The sharpness of his tone drew Severus' dark eyes to him. "Pity will only make him bitter. Believe me."

"I don't need your instructions to tell me that, Potter." 

Harry understood. He knew Severus' past, had shared childhood stories with Severus' portrait after a particularly difficult situation with an abused Hogwarts student. 

He jerked his gaze away, shaking his head. Catching Severus' eye like that was dangerous now, with Harry's wards crumbling. "What will happen to Lucius? To Narcissa?"

Severus stilled behind his desk. "You speak of them as if you have a much more intimate connection than I would expect."

Harry turned away, trying to drag his thoughts from his memory of the Forbidden Forest, of walking out to meet Voldemort. A smile twisted across his lips as he stared into the distance. "It was Narcissa who saved me, who saved us all, really. At the end, she lied to Voldemort in exchange for me telling her that Draco was alive inside Hogwarts."

"She cared more about Draco than about winning the war. Every move she made was about protecting her family." Harry shrugged, facing the other wizard. "I understand that. As for Lucius -"

"Lucius did not have that choice," Severus said. "From the rituals and spells he'd been subjected to as a child and on into his twenties, while Abraxas was still alive, he could not have broken free." The wizard paused, assessing. "I am, frankly, surprised that you care. That the Malfoy family downfall is not at the very top of Harry Potter's to-do list."

"People change," Harry replied, in his blandest tone.

"So I am told. I have little evidence of it myself."

Harry cocked his head, his disbelief obvious. "You have all the evidence you need within yourself, Sev – Professor. To be honest," his lips twisted at the word, "the Malfoy family suffered after the war and I did nothing to stop it. The wizarding world had its revenge. When I stumbled across the truth that I shared in that letter," he nodded towards Severus' desk, "I realized another of my mistakes."

"Mistakes? The Chosen One made mistakes?"

"Believe me, there is not enough parchment in the world to list them all." Harry brushed off the sarcasm. It had sounded half-hearted at best. "The information about Abraxas and his friendship with Grindelwald came to me a few years ago, but it had been there all the time, if anyone had bothered to look for it. Perhaps, this time, others will be able to see the truth about Lucius and this will all end - differently."

"Unfortunately, there is no real evidence to support a claim of Incapacity Through Ritualized Control." Severus lifted his hands. "I'm afraid there is little to offer the court by way of testimony on his behalf. The Malfoys made sure there were no witnesses to their … torture sessions. No witnesses they could not control."

An idea sparked in Harry's mind and he felt a smile grow across his face. "I believe you may have overlooked someone, Professor."

Severus' severe frown nearly made Harry laugh.

"Dobby!" Harry called.


	20. Dobby Remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing graphic, but warnings for Lucius' childhood abuse.

The house elf appeared with a pop, a dozen scarfs wrapped around him every which way and several toppling knitted hats on his head, his huge, saucer-sized eyes, doughy nose, and pointy ears the only parts of his face visible.

"Mumfy Momfer! Mumfy Momfer muf malled Mobby!"

Ignoring Severus' sneer, Harry dropped to one knee and peeled the elf out of his restrictive clothes, leaving him with one hat and only two scarfs and, hopefully, an ability to breathe and talk normally.

"Dobby, it's brilliant to see you." Harry held onto the elf's thin hands, unwilling to let them go. It had been so long, so very long. "I've missed you."

"Harry Potter?" The elf's eyes blinked slowly and then narrowed as Dobby leaned in until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Harry. "It is Harry Potter, but not." The elf squeezed his hands. "Harry Potter has come back to us from far ahead, hasn't he? He has taken grave risks."

Elf magic. The small, unobtrusive creatures, overlooked and scorned by most wizards and witches, were a powerful race. Like the goblins, house elves had access to magics wizards could never perceive. They needed neither schooling nor wands and yet no one had ever measured the breadth of their power.

Severus moved from behind his desk. "You can see that?"

"Dobby knows Harry Potter," the elf replied proudly. "He is Harry Potter's friend." His ears drooped. "He was Harry Potter's friend. The Harry Potter from the here and now."

"You'll always be my friend, Dobby. I promise." Harry grinned. "Any wizard would be grateful to have a friend like you. You're a hero, Dobby."

"No," Dobby scoffed blushing to the tips of his ears. "Dobby is not a hero. Never a hero, not like Harry Potter and his friends."

"Don't you remember? Don't you remember saving me from Lucius Malfoy's spell? Or giving me the gillyweed before the second task?"

The elf's ears were perking up, his little chest swelling with pride. "Dobby was only helping Harry Potter."

"And now," Harry began, sitting back on his heels, "I'm going to ask you to help me again. But, I'll warn you, Dobby, it won't be easy."

Dobby flung his scrawny arms around Harry's neck, knocking Harry onto his arse. "Dobby would do anything for Harry Potter! He is so happy that this new Harry Potter is asking for his help! Even after he has saved the world!"

Harry gripped the elf's baggy clothes tight. "What do you mean, Dobby?"

Dobby leaned back, one finger across his lips. "The elves know, Harry Potter," he whispered. "Elves, goblins, centaurs – all the magical creatures know whose power killed Voldemort. Look!" His grin stretched wide. "Dobby can say his name! Voldemort! Voldemort! Volde-"

"Okay, okay." Harry patted the house elf on the shoulder and then reached around to detach Dobby's other hand from his neck. He set Dobby before him. "Dobby, you mustn't tell anyone. None of the elves must tell anyone. Can you speak to them?"

"Why not? Harry Potter is a hero!"

"Dobby," Severus leaned over Harry's shoulder to address the elf. "The elves here at Hogwarts are bound to the Headmaster. They cannot go against his wishes, can they?"

Dobby twisted his hands together, huge eyes narrowing. "Dobby is a free elf."

"Yes, Dobby is a free elf, but if he wants to continue to reside here at Hogwarts, he will obey the headmaster – and Harry Potter - in this matter."

"Professor –" Harry didn't like the idea of anyone threatening Dobby. 

The elf's oversized head turned back and forth. "No one has told Dobby or the other elves here at Hogwarts to be quiet. To not tell of Harry Potter's victory."

Harry met Severus' eyes, bitter truth shared between them. Just how many moves ahead on the chessboard had Dumbledore planned?

"Well, I'm telling you now, Dobby. And so is Professor Snape. It's important that no one knows anything about who killed Voldemort."

Sorrow drew Dobby's ears down again. "To protect Harry Potter?"

He nodded. "Yes, Dobby. To protect me." It wasn't a lie but, still, Harry had a hard time getting the words out of his mouth. Silence would protect him – protect him from the bloody notoriety and fame he'd dealt so badly with the first time around. 

"People can't know that he's come back from the future. You understand that, surely," Severus added.

The light behind Dobby's eyes grew brighter. "Oh. No, Dobby mustn't tell that. If, if other elves tell, Harry Potter's magic will be revealed." The elf leapt past Harry's arms and jumped around the classroom. "Dobby will make sure no Hogwarts' elf tells! Harry Potter must trust Dobby!"

"Wait!" Harry scrambled to his feet to stop the elf from Apparating. "Dobby, there's another reason we called you, something else you can help with."

"Anything."

"Well, Professor Snape and I were wondering, since, before you were free, you belonged to the Malfoy family, if you remember much about Abraxas Malfoy."

Dobby shivered, arms clutched across his chest.

Harry shifted, Severus' looming presence behind him not helping his concentration. "I know he was a bad wizard, Dobby, you don't have to tell me that. But, right now, his son, Lucius, your previous master, is in trouble."

"Bad, evil Master Lucius – he tried to kill Harry Potter!"

"He did. And you protected me."

Dobby nodded, a stern expression on his face.

"But you lived in the Malfoy Manor for many years, didn't you? You knew Lucius as a little boy?"

"Always kicking and smacking Dobby, playing games, not nice games, games that hurt Dobby and the others. Like the newer one."

"Like Draco," Harry replied.

"Kicking and smacking, making Dobby punish himself, over and over."

Behind him, Severus sighed. "This is fruitless, Mister Potter."

"Do you remember anything else, Dobby? Things that happened when Lucius was a baby? A little boy? Rituals or spells?" If the house elf could testify to what Abraxas had done, Lucius might at least get a fair trial.

Dobby's response was shocking. "Dobby remembers everything, Harry Potter. Every word. Every spell. The rooms. The books. The blood enchantments. The oaths. Dobby was the most trusted of all the Malfoy house elves. Dobby saw," he shuddered, "terrible things."

"Everything?" Harry breathed.

"A house elf must remember, Harry Potter. He must forget nothing that his master says. Nothing."

"Severus," Harry spun to face the other wizard. "Do you think –"

"I do." Severus hurried back to his cabinet and retrieved his Pensieve – lacquered black enamel with gold handles. "Do you know what this is, Dobby?"

"Dobby knows." He gazed back and forth between Harry and Severus. "But Dobby's memories won't come out like a wizard's." He clunked a fist on the side of his head a few times. "Elf heads are hard, they don't give up their secrets."

Harry cursed, hands on his hips.

"Do not worry, Harry Potter – Dobby has another way!" With two hops, Dobby stood atop Severus' desk, both hands on the edge of the cauldron.

Severus lurched towards the Pensieve, probably trying to snatch it away from the elf, but Dobby had already begun to transform the metal cauldron into something else. It rose from the desk, widening and thinning, the bowl turning on its end, the metal melting from the center until it was a metal ring holding the swirling magic inside. When the circle was roughly half a meter across, it stopped and settled, upright, into a slot in the base.

Dobby stepped back and smiled up at the infuriated wizard. "See? Now Dobby's memories can be seen."

Harry approached cautiously. "How does it work?"

"Watch!" Dobby tip-toed around the device and stood behind it, leaning forward until his round, wide eyes were nearly pressed against the mist. As Harry watched, Dobby blinked, and the swirling silver surface faded, revealing the crystal-clear image of Dobby appearing in Severus' office and talking to the two wizards. Every word spoken, every noise made by the dancing elf and the two wizards came through with such precision that the scene seemed deeper and richer and sharper than life. Dobby blinked again, and the scene went momentarily dark before another scene popped into sight – Dobby facing off with Lucius Malfoy after Harry had tricked the wizard into giving Dobby a sock. Another blink and Dobby was cowering before a white-haired youth, the practiced sneer and venomous expression telling Harry it was Lucius Malfoy.

_"Where have you put it, you little fiend?" Lucius snarled, a line of white fire cracking out of his wand to lash against Dobby's back. "I know it was in here. I saw it yesterday." Another crack. "Tell me, tell me now!"_

_"Master Lucius, Dobby cannot answer – Dobby is not allowed to answer." He cringed, his huge eyes begging Lucius to stop as he lashed him again._

_"I want that vial, elf! I want it now!" Lucius leaned down to take Dobby by one arm and shake him. As his face came nearer, tiny details were revealed. The redness of Lucius' eyes. The way a thin sheen of sweat lay over his pale face. The pure terror that hurried his movements._

_"Let go of the elf, Lucius. He answers to the patriarch, you know. Not to foolish boys."_

_Abraxas Malfoy. Harry felt his fists clench tight, his short, ragged fingernails drawing blood._

_Lucius thrust Dobby away from him and straightened. For a second, Harry saw defeat in the boy's eyes before Lucius adopted a stern, cold expression. If he hadn't seen the boy acting in sheer panic a few moments before, Harry would not believe Lucius Malfoy capable of such fear._

_"Father. I didn't hear you arrive."_

_As Dobby crept back into a shadowed corner, the tall, painfully thin wizard came forward, his white hair crowning his head in a thick mass like a lion's mane. "Of course, you didn't."_

_Lucius didn't reply, but stood as if waiting, as if expecting something._

_"Have you finished the reading I assigned?"_

_"Yes, father."_

_"And the spell work?"_

_"Yes, father."_

_Abraxas hummed, turning from the boy and setting his gloves and cloak over the arm of a chair. "And you thought, when you were finished, that you'd come here, into my study, to seek out an item you have no right to?"_

_The cold, emotionless tone of his father sparked heat within Lucius' eyes and he lost his controlled façade. "'No right!' How can you say that I have no right! It's mine! It's always been mine! You – you –"_

_His wand describing an arc in the air between them, Abraxas hissed a spell and Lucius stiffened, eyes widening and his mouth open in a voiceless scream. Tremors ran along his arms, his legs, his entire body vibrating. Whatever the spell was doing, Lucius was in pain._

_Abraxas held his wand aloft, watching his son suffer. One minute passed. Another. "Another lesson to be learned, Lucius, my boy."_

_The wizard's tone was soft, almost sweet. It made Harry shudder._

_"Another ritual to be observed. You knew it would be tonight, didn't you? Your grandfather has fallen ill, and we must finish our work, mustn't we?" Abraxas moved to Lucius side and placed his hand against his son's cheek. "I'm proud of your persistence, child. That heat within you. But you must learn cunning, my dear one. And control. Your passions will make a savory offering tonight, don't you think?" Abraxas leaned close until his cheek was pressed to Lucius' hair, eyes closed, inhaling the scent of his son's fear. His pain. "Yes. You're nearly a man, now. It is time to offer that manhood, that passion."_

_"Dobby."_

_Abraxas did not move away from his son, but the whispered word drew the house elf closer._

_"Take Lucius to his room. Prepare him as I've taught you. I will summon you both when the ritual room is ready."_

_"Yes, Master," Dobby answered._

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't want to see any more.

"That's quite enough for now."

Severus' calm command helped settle the churning of Harry's stomach. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

Dobby peeked around the side of the restructured Pensieve, the swirling mist turning back to opaque. "Does this make Harry Potter happy?"

'Happy.' No. Not at all. He swallowed and managed a nod. "Can you call up any memory, Dobby?"

The elf nodded briskly, still smiling. "All of Dobby's memories can be seen through the magic, Harry Potter. Abraxas, Lucius, all the secrets."

"Will they listen, Severus?" Harry addressed the other wizard. "Will the Wizengamot hear a house elf?"

Lips pursed, Severus' expression was stern. "They have called stranger witnesses – and their memories. Children. Magic mirrors. Merfolk. I shall send Dobby to Dumbledore at once." The wizard's face took on a curious look. "Is it always so … easy to access a house elf's memories?"

"Oh, no, Harry's Professor." Dobby shook his head and seated himself on the corner of the desk. "Elves and goblins – all magical creatures must be willing to give up their memories. Even a Master or Mistress may not command a house elf to remember if he doesn't want to. But, now, Hogwarts asks Dobby to tell the truth. Asks him every minute of every day, asks everyone," he spread his arms out wide, nearly knocking himself over. "And Dobby will not say no to Hogwarts. Hogwarts is Dobby's home."

"Home," Severus muttered, eyes reflecting murky thoughts. He turned on one heel and stared at Harry. "Of course. That is the key Albus has used to tune the spells and charms of these new wards. The children are affected somewhat because of their lack of magical strength and training, but the restrictions against tampering with underage minds was grown into the very stones here. Obviously, behaviors have been modified more than any internal interference in the students. But adults – teachers, staff," Severus raised one eyebrow, "time traveling meddlers, would find their own disciplined and guarded minds largely immune."

"Except –" Harry began.

"Except for those of us who have the greatest connection to Hogwarts, who think of it as our home. Our only home."

Harry knew it was the truth. "Like me," he agreed.

"And me," Severus replied.


	21. Compleo Cruor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague talk of some canon m/f relationships.

"… and when Parvati sent that Bat Bogey Hex at Seamus …"

"Brilliant! I thought Dean was going to wet himself laughing!"

"Hey!" Seamus turned a stern look on Ginny. "It was rotten luck that me allergies were acting up!"

"Yeah, who knew so many bats could fit inside one nose!"

The Gryffindors were jostling each other at their table in the Great Hall, most of the fifth-years still talking about Harry's successful DADA class that afternoon. Harry ate, taking it all in. The flashing eyes, the grins, the laughter, the good-natured ribbing. It had gone well, the familiar attitude of teaching falling over him like his favorite robes as he stepped to the front of the classroom. Even Severus' and Minerva's hovering hadn't bothered him.

Earlier today, Severus had agreed to present Dobby to the Wizengamot – to make sure his testimony was heard concerning Lucius Malfoy and his grandfather's blood rites. Another lengthy discussion with the Potions Master was in order, but Harry had to get through his first day as a Hogwarts teacher, first.

The strength of the Hogwarts' wards had come to Harry's aid. As he'd learned many years ago, in teaching, nothing could be hidden. Whether a teacher wanted to or not, his or her true self was laid bare in the classroom, revealed in a hundred different ways before the penetrating gaze of their students. He remembered Minerva's guiding hand as he'd begun his career at Hogwarts.

_"You cannot fool your students, so I'd suggest you not attempt it. Whoever you are, at the very heart of you," she advised him, "they will see it. They will see it in your eyes as you correct them, they will hear it in your tone as you repeat the same lesson over and over again, and they will feel it in your assignments and corrections. A teacher is naked before her students." Her eyes twinkled, the creases around them, thankfully, more due to laughter than worry these past years. "Be yourself. They will know if you are lying – to yourself or to them."_

Harry didn't need to hide his skills in the classroom, nor his ability to lead the others through a spell's movements and rhythms. He'd acquired a deep connection to his magical core over years of study and practice – helping others find that same strength within themselves satisfied an emptiness in his soul. 

Of course, it had helped that his first group of students had been Gryffindors, his friends, willing and eager to learn, to show off the prowess they'd honed during the secret defense club meetings. Tomorrow would be the real test, with Harry attending his own classes as well as teaching a double class of fourth-year Ravenclaws and Slytherins. At least he'd have Luna there to lean on. Harry swept a glance towards the Ravenclaw table and smiled. He hoped Dumbledore's new wards would allow her to keep most of her belongings this year. Right now, she was chatting with Cho Chang while building a sculpture out of mashed spuds that Harry thought might be a blibbering humdinger.

When Cho glanced up and met Harry's smile with a blush and a flutter of eyelashes, Harry went very still.

Oh.

Oh, dear.

A sharp elbow in his side drew Harry's mind back to the Gryffindor table.

Ron leaned in. "Looking good there, mate." His smile was goofy. Ridiculous. And his not-so-subtle wink nearly made Harry laugh out loud. 

"Stop it," Harry murmured, lowering his gaze to his plate and deliberately taking a bite.

"What. What is it?" Across the table, Hermione twisted around to find out what she'd missed.

"Here, don't do that," Harry blurted, reaching out to tap her hand.

She flung herself back around. "Cho, is it?" Hermione announced in a very not-quiet whisper.

"'Bout time, mate. Almost Christmas and you still haven't made a move."

Harry shuddered at the thought of 'making a move' on a fifteen-year-old girl. She was a child. A child still grieving Cedric's loss and the weight of her best friend's criticism of the DA. Harry frowned. If he'd been able to return a few months earlier, Cedric could have been saved. But, Death had set the limits of Harry's return and would not budge. That confrontation in the graveyard was one consequence of Voldemort's evil and Dumbledore's plot that could never be undone.

"She's interested, Harry. I've told you that," Hermione continued. "It seems the perfect time to ask her out – you've no worries about Voldemort or the safety of any of your friends to concern you." She shifted on her seat, flicking a nervous, excited glance towards Ron, "I mean, it seems natural for lots of us, ah, I mean people, to be pairing off."

"Yeah," Ron elbowed him again. "Have a little fun, for once, Harry."

"Ask her to the picnic this weekend. Everyone will be going anyway, so it's not as if she's made some other plans." Hermione nodded to herself, as if that was Harry sorted. "Do you want me to ask her for you?"

"NO!" Too loud, too shrill – Harry's face burned at the squeak in his voice and he lowered his head until his nose nearly touched his roast chicken. "No," he repeated deliberately, "thank you, Hermione."

"Yeah, let the man do it himself." Ron bumped shoulders with Harry in solidarity. "He's stood up to Voldemort, I think he can manage to run into Cho by accident and start a conversation."

"Of course, I can." 'Can', Harry was careful to say, not 'will'. Harry hadn't the least inclination to make this aspect of teen-age life a part of his smokescreen. He pushed his plate away. To date a child thirty years younger than him – even for the sake of appearing normal - made him physically ill. 

"There you go, mate." Ron swallowed a large mouthful. "You two can come along with us." The smile he sent across the table at Hermione was half star-struck, half goof-ball. And all Ron.

A wistful hope bloomed in Harry's soul. This time, he vowed, this time he would pay more attention to his best friends. He'd pull his head out of his arse and stand beside them. He'd help them over the rough spots. This time, with Hermione a few years younger and not directly involved with the death of Voldemort, she would take a different path. A path that did not lead her into politics, into a life devoted to persecuting witches and wizards with any faint tie to the Dark Arts. Hermione would still be the brightest witch of her age, but, this time, the battle with Voldemort's minions would not propel her to step into Dolores Umbridge's shoes with the very best of intentions.

And Ron? Ron had pursued becoming an Auror because of Harry, had tried working at the Ministry because of Hermione's ambition for him, but his heart had not been in it. Every time Hermione had risen up another level of power, Ron had taken a step backwards. He'd been happy for her for a time, but Harry knew Ron longed for a simpler life. A life away from the center of power. One set of footsteps Ron would never want to walk in were his brother, Percy's. When he'd resigned to work with George in the joke shop, Hermione had been furious, claiming that he was not living up to his potential.

What she'd meant was that Ron had become a weight that was holding her back.

Ron had been heartbroken by the divorce. He'd dived into Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes and embraced his family's interests. But, no matter how hard he tried, how long he let his hair grow or the great ideas he shared, George still looked at Ron and saw the wrong brother at his side. A poor substitute for the one he'd lost. And Ron knew it. 

Regrets curled out from behind Harry's broken inner shields. Fred. He swallowed back the dinner that was trying to surge up his throat. Now, Fred and George could go on, together, arm-in-arm. He glanced down the table at the two, thick as thieves, sketching something out on a piece of old parchment, red hair never to be darkened with soot or blood.

A hint of candle smoke drifted past, and Harry was plunged into a memory. Dust thickened the air until all sound was muffled. One voice cut through the fog – cries of utter loss, of soul-deep pain. George crouched over Fred's bloody, broken form.

Harry shook his head to dispel the image. Fred would live. His chest tightened as his gaze drew down the Gryffindor table. Lavender, her eyes bright and shining. She would live – grow up – have a family and children of her own. And, Ginny –

His breath caught. Ginny sat between Neville and Dean, glancing up at Harry from time to time. She was so young – a child – her face round and soft. But, beneath this child's outer form beat a warrior's heart. The girl had lived at the edge of Harry's life since second year. Since the Chamber of Secrets. Ron's younger sister who liked to follow him around. In fifth year, during DA meetings, he'd seen her as a gifted witch, a steady supporter, hurrying after her brother and Harry into the dangers of the Department of Mysteries headlong. He owed her – so much. Friendship. Distance. He owed her a future that wasn't shackled to himself.

Other memories tried to creep forward, flashes of Ginny, grown up and laughing in Harry's arms, dancing at Ron and Hermione's wedding. Harry frowned down at the table, trying to scatter the images. 

_A grey haze surrounded Harry's vision, pain like a huge fist pressing him into the cold, wet earth. He'd wanted to show Ginny the muggle world, take her on a traditional seaside vacation filled with traffic jams and sand in their suits, and sunburns. They should be safe, there, he'd thought. Just another couple._

_Not safe. Nowhere was safe. His fault, his fault._

Harry scrambled from his seat, overturning his plate and nearly knocking Dean over in his haste. He couldn't sit here among these children a moment longer. He heard shouts behind him, his name from familiar lips and well-loved voices as he charged out of the Great Hall. No, he couldn't, he couldn't pretend. What had he done? Why had he thought he could do this? Stay here, sit at the same table with those who'd died because of him? His stupid pride. His foolish, Gryffindor confidence.

Why did he think he deserved another chance?

The enchanted fireplace that Dumbledore had added to the Entrance Hall flared green as Harry stalked past and he crouched into a defensive posture, wand raised to strike.

"Harry! Quick, now, help me!"

Sirius stumbled through, one arm wrapped around Remus' waist, nearly dragging the taller man into the castle.

Remus' robes were covered in blood.

Harry's chest seemed to split open with the terrified thumping of his heart. No. Remus lived. Remus would live. He had to live.

He jumped to obey, wedging himself under Remus' right arm. The wizard's head was lolling, blood spilling sluggishly from a long gash that stretched from shoulder to waist. He was nearly unconscious, his skin waxy and pale, eyes rolled back, barely able to shuffle his feet to take some of his own weight. Without thinking, Harry flung a spell towards the grand staircase and sent his Patronus off to fetch Pomfrey. With one more spell he'd conjured a medical cot and helped Sirius load Remus onto it.

"What happened?" Harry demanded, already moving his wand over the injured man to run basic diagnostic spells. "Who did this?"

"Greyback," Sirius panted, holding onto the rail on his side of the cot with both hands. He was pale, shivering with adrenaline and fear. "We'd cornered him in Edinburgh, in the tunnels under the city. We'd got word of a few Death Eaters hiding out there until they could get a ship to the Continent."

"The two of you tried to take on Greyback and his friends all alone? What are you, mad or just suicidal?" Harry snapped, furious. "It wasn't enough to risk your own life, was it? You had to drag Remus along with you." Harry clenched his teeth, his rage exploding at the fool standing across from him. "Even if you don't care if you live or die, Remus is supposed to live! He –" his angry shouts died as the list of Remus' injuries appeared in the air over Remus' cot. Fractured foot, dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, sluggish heartbeat – the blood loss was horrific, deadly.

"Mister Potter, what are you –" McGonagall forced her way through the crowd of students that had gathered in the doorway to the Great Hall. "Sirius –" her eyes widened at Remus' pale, shivering figure. "Get Madam Pomfrey," she grabbed the first student within reach. "Hurry, now. And Professor Dumbledore."

"I've already sent for Poppy," Harry threw at her over his shoulder. "But we don't have time to wait for her. We've got to stop the bleeding and replenish some of what he's lost." Remus couldn't die. Not now, now that Harry had removed Voldemort's threat. Remus and Tonks were supposed to live. To be parents to Teddy. His hand tightened on his wand. "We have to perform Compleo Cruor, but I'll need some help." Harry glanced up at Sirius, gauging the wizard's scrawny form, heavy breathing, and the sweat beading long his hairline. "Minerva, please." Harry held out his hand towards her. "His heart is failing."

" _Minerva,_ is it," she whispered, moving rapidly to Harry's side. "I don't know what's come over you, Potter, but if this is the way you respond to being allowed to teach a few classes, then I believe we should rethink the entire situation. Now," she grasped his hand and touched her wand to his, "follow my lead."

Blinking hard, Harry put his arguments and fears aside and allowed McGonagall to begin the enchantment. Only one needed to chant, the other served as an anchor. He tightened his grip on her hand and set his feet, nodding when he was ready. He felt the pull on his magic when she drew her wand away from his, leaving a glimmering strand of magic strung between the two, a steady stream of power flowing from both of their cores. Concentrating, Harry let her pull sustain the flow, allowing her to access what she needed, to pull another stream to connect with the first one, and then another, linking them with hers until they'd woven a narrow net of energy between them.

"Now," Minerva breathed.

Harry made the sharp movement to release the connection and uttered the incantation. "Compleo Cruor." The glowing net snapped down to cover Remus' chest and the wizard's eyes flew open as his torso jerked. The spell sank down into his skin, carrying blood and oxygen and nutrients straight into Remus' major organs and strengthening his systems.

Harry realized he had closed his eyes when he felt someone pressed against his right side. Someone strong, with an iron grip around his shoulders. Harry knew he would have fallen without the help. Beneath his right hand, still clutching his wand, he felt Remus' breathing deepen, the beats of his heart steady. He wanted to open his eyes and look, to see the wizard's face – alive, awake – but he couldn't seem to do it.

"He's stabilized." 

Severus. Good. Harry let his chin drop to his chest. Severus would see to it.

"Yes. It's safe to move him, now. Quickly." Poppy Pomfrey's voice always turned shrill when she was worried. "Why you didn't Floo directly to the hospital wing, I have no idea, but I suppose we can't change that now."

"I, I just said 'Hogwarts,'" Sirius explained.

"Well then it's a good thing you didn't appear in the Gryffindor Common Room or the kitchen, or, or, -" 

Harry felt Remus' cot move out from beneath his hands. He grunted when the arm clasped around him refused to release him to follow.

"Minerva – do you –"

"See to Potter, first. He's had more than enough shocks to his system of late." Minerva's tone was sharp and firm. "He's obviously gotten a hold of information a fifteen-year-old should not be reading. You have a lot of explaining to do, Mister Black."

"No." Harry managed to crack open his eyes and he tried to push away from Severus' hold. Sirius should be explaining about Remus' injuries, not being blamed for Harry's knowledge of magic beyond his years.

"Quiet, _child_ ," Severus muttered pointedly. "If you wish to succeed in your … endeavor."

Harry stiffened and then looked around. When had the students arrived? The members of the DA already knew about Harry's Patronus, but they'd seen him perform the diagnostic spell and the Compleo Cruor – a spell every Auror is trained to do, but that should be well beyond a fifth year. 

He was tired, so tired. The spell shouldn't have weakened him this much – it never had before. The crowd of students were staring, mouths wide. Staring at the blood on Harry's robes, on the floor. At Severus propping Harry up. Ron. Hermione. Luna. Cho. Neville. Ginny. So young.

Reality slammed into Harry, knocking the wind out of him. Fifteen. He was fifteen again. No longer Death's Master, Harry was young and weak, trembling against the side of his Potions teacher.

Poppy's and Sirius' voices floated away, growing fainter as they moved towards the hospital wing. 

"Take this." Snape thrust a vial into Harry's hand.

He didn't bother to look, just twisted off the cork and held it to his nose. "Pepper-Up. Thank you." He downed it in a few swallows and was relieved to find his head clearing. 

When Harry could stand on his own, Severus stood back but didn't let go. He grabbed Harry's arm in a familiar brutal hold and leaned in, menacingly. "We have much to discuss, Mister Potter."

Harry nodded, relieved. 

"Professor Snape –" 

Hermione's eyes were narrowed in suspicion. Over her shoulder, Ron seemed dazed. No. They shouldn't have seen – he shouldn't have performed magic like that in front of her. She was too smart, too clever. But Remus – he couldn't let Remus die.

"Professor Filch, if you would urge the students back to their tables, please. I believe Professor McGonagall will be accompanying us." Snape turned back to Harry abruptly. "Don't you, Potter?"

Harry sighed. "I suppose that would be for the best." It wasn't supposed to be happening this way. Harry should have been allowed to simply slip away. To start over somewhere else. His return was having repercussions he'd never imagined.

"Well," Minerva stated with a huff, "I'm ever so grateful for your agreement, Potter."

The two flanked Harry as they approached the fireplace. Severus flung a handful of powder into the flames. "My private quarters," he announced. And then the password, " _Parseltongue_."


	22. A Widening Circle

It had been a long half-day of teaching. As Severus had predicted, the questions were many, even after Dumbledore's revealing speech this morning. Unfortunately, the questions had not been restricted to students – many of the other teachers and staff had taken the time to corner Severus with their own concerns and theories concerning the Dark Lord, the future, and a certain Boy Who Had Begun Teaching Classes. He blamed Dumbledore's wards on the often honest and meandering answers he heard coming from his own lips when, in the past, a raised eyebrow would have been enough to put them off.

Since he had been deliberately watching for it, Severus noticed several instances where the honesty and teamwork charms influenced student behavior. Houses were mingling more freely, students willing to sit next to those they might have shunned a week ago. His Slytherins lobbed fewer ingredients into other's cauldrons during Potions class, and their frequent taunts had dropped in both number and intensity. In some rather entertaining incidents, quite a few of the school's couples had retreated from each other, some 'honest' phrases ending those simpering romances with as much good will as teenagers were capable of, even under the strongest of charmed compulsions.

Severus sighed. The opposite, however, was also true. Students who had barely spoken to each other were suddenly best friends – or, as in the case of a certain Gryffindor duo, had come to an intimate understanding. His gaze lingered on the Gryffindor table, on Potter in particular. He seemed to be wavering between amusement and concern – still struggling with the dichotomy of this new life. Hopefully, the solution to his own difficulties that Severus had come up with would be able to assist Potter as well.

And, perhaps, if Weasley and Granger were caught up in their budding romance, their scrutiny of the changes in Potter would wane. At least for a time. He nodded. That would give Potter a bit of breathing room that the wizard desperately needed.

From his watchful position in the shadows of Potter's DADA classroom earlier today, Severus – joined by Minerva McGonagall a few moments later - had barely been able to contain his shock. The boy – the man – had stepped into his role of teacher without a single stumble. His style was not at all in keeping with Severus' idea of classroom management, however he kept order and control, laid out an organized plan for the next few weeks of classes, and simply began. Potter had shrunk the furniture into a small heap and separated his students into groups of four to practice simple defensive spells. All without raising his voice or succumbing to a new teacher's fear of losing control.

Severus' shock had been more than the sinking feeling that Potter had been quite a good teacher in his future life but centered on the fact that not one of his students thought his attitude – and aptitude – the least bit out of the ordinary.

Of course, they were Gryffindors.

"He's a natural." Minerva's eyes had glittered, her chin tucked in in pride. "Just how long has that secret defense club of his been going on?" she'd whispered.

"You would have to ask the headmaster that question," Severus replied in a dry tone.

"Well, however long, the boy has certainly matured, hasn't he?"

Severus had barely managed to turn an automatic reply into a closed-mouthed hum.

When Potter had raced from the Great Hall during dinner, his friends calling after him in concern, Severus had hurried to follow, his long legs eating up the distance between them. The scene before him made him stumble to a halt.

Black and the werewolf, covered in blood. Potter shooting off two familiar-looking spells to summon help. A cot was summoned, and a diagnostic spell begun before Severus could catch his breath.

And then the boy did something Severus did not think possible – he began snarling at Sirius Black. Taking the man to task for putting the werewolf in harms' way. When Granger and Weasley – and Minerva - inevitably erupted from the Great Hall, Severus neatly corralled the children while his colleague joined Potter at Lupin's side. By the time Severus had instructed the prefects to keep their charges back and had moved towards the blood-soaked ensemble, Potter had just spoken the incantation. "Compleo Cruor."

Severus managed to catch the thin boy before he tumbled to the ground. He peered down at Lupin, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, the easing of his muscles. The spell had been successful – with a fifteen-year-old's magic fueling it, the complex, draining spell had been performed flawlessly.

"He's stabilized," Severus murmured, astonished.

Poppy Pomfrey rushed to the head of the cot, her wand already extended over her patient. "Yes. It's safe to move him, now. Quickly." She shooed Minerva off and turned to Black, her wand sketching diagnostic designs in the air. "You'll be fine, but you should come along. Why you didn't Floo directly to the hospital wing, I have no idea, but I suppose we can't change that now." He pushed at Black's shoulder, forcing him to walk on.

"I, I just said 'Hogwarts,'" Sirius explained as he allowed himself to be herded up the stairs.

"Well then it's a good thing you didn't appear in the Gryffindor Common Room or the kitchen, or, or, -" 

Severus' lip curled at the disheveled figure. Black had barely said a word to Potter. Even now, he didn't look over his shoulder once to make sure his godson was all right. He felt the boy attempt to move away from him and tightened his grip. 

Beside him, Minerva had folded her arms over her chest and was regarding Harry and Severus with a knowing glare. Potter's secret could not survive the connection the two had made during that spell. She would have recognized the depth of his magic, the changes to his core; she'd be able to determine Potter's age nearly as easily as counting rings on a tree stump.

"Minerva – do you –"

"See to Potter, first. He's had more than enough shocks to his system of late." Her voice was sharp, but the glint in her eye could cut glass. She swept her gaze around the Great Hall, taking in the lingering students and straightened, speaking for them all to hear. "He's obviously gotten a hold of information a fifteen-year-old should not be reading. You have a lot of explaining to do, Mister Black."

"No." Potter made another attempt at escaping from Severus' hold. Severus rolled his eyes at the Gryffindor-like response.

"Quiet, _child_ ," Severus muttered pointedly. "If you wish to succeed in your … endeavor."

Potter stiffened. A moment later all the fight seemed to drain out of the boy. He began to shiver, his teeth chattering.

Severus drew a small vial from an inside pocket of his robes. "Take this." Snape thrust it into Harry's hand.

The boy twisted off the cork and held it to his nose. "Pepper-Up. Thank you." He drank it down.

He'd recognized it by scent alone. Severus' lips thinned. He had to get the boy out of this crowd and into a private area before he began babbling about advanced spell-work and potions brewing he'd done in his earlier life.

When the boy could stand on his own, Severus grabbed him by the upper arm and loomed over him, desperate to get his attention. "We have much to discuss, Mister Potter."

"Professor Snape –"

Merlin curse the girl. It was Granger, of course.

"Professor Flitwick, please urge the students back to their tables. I believe Professor McGonagall will be accompanying us." Snape turned back to Harry abruptly. "Don't you, Potter?"

Potter sighed and agreed. A few seconds later the three were stepping from the Floo into Severus' personal quarters. He deposited Potter onto the small couch and gestured Minerva to a chair. After conjuring another for himself, he snapped his fingers and ordered the Hogwarts house elf to supply tea, sugar, milk, and a cup of fortified broth.

One arm flung over his eyes, Potter groaned. "That broth had better not be for me. A scotch would help, though."

Severus snorted. "Yes, because exhausted fifteen-year-old wizards, drained of all energy, would tolerate strong spirits so well. If you'd like to end up a giggling – or weeping – heap on the floor, I'll retrieve my bottle of Neap's immediately."

Minerva had remained quiet during this exchange, but Severus had no hope that she would remain so. 

Potter was struggling, that much was clear. The spell he'd performed was a dangerous one – used only in direst emergencies when medical help was too long in coming. Couple that with the continuing erosion of his Occlumency shields and whatever had sent him racing from the Great Hall in the first place and the boy was almost certainly on the edge of collapse. Severus knew the sweat and muscle tension was due in some part to the Pepper-Up potion, but a fifteen-year-old body couldn't be expected to take much more. 

Glasses shoved to the top of his head, Potter rubbed his eyes with both hands and lurched forward to lean perilously over his knees. "It's all in here – all tangled up together. Even with Occlumency, I can't keep them apart – the memories. I can't keep my lifetimes straight – the past, the future – I thought it would have faded by now."

"What in Hecate's hochepot are you talking about?"

The boy stilled at the sharp slice of Minerva's voice. His hands still covered his eyes, but Severus could see right through them to imagine the thoughts whizzing through his brain. Fight or flight. In his state, it was unlikely that Potter could come to a rational decision in this matter. Severus narrowed his eyes. Whose voice, exactly, did Potter hear? Was it Professor McGonagall, his Head of House? An imposing witch, stern authority figure, Quidditch enthusiast, and loyal Gryffindor, or a colleague, a mentor, an old woman Potter had known his entire life?

"I believe your combined efforts to save Lupin," Severus began, hoping to take some of the stress of revelation from Potter's mind, "have already revealed quite a bit about Potter's difficulties."

Minerva nodded. "Most definitely."

Potter dropped his hands to his lap and revealed a face grey with fatigue, green eyes blazing with an inner fire that would not be dampened. "I'm sorry." His words came out in a thin stream, as if his throat had shrunk to a finger's breadth. "I should have told you. You, especially." His smile was quick to come and go. "After all you've done for me. This has been a sad way to repay your patience and support."

"My –" Minerva rose and wedged herself in between Potter and the sofa's arm, one hand on his shoulder. "Harry. Who do you think I am?"

"You're Minerva Elspeth McGonagall. You resemble your mother, Isobel, physically and magically. When you were a child you used to charm the family cat to do your bidding. That was the first sign that you'd be an Animagus someday, a transformation that came as naturally to you as Quidditch."

Severus sat back, hands steepled before him. Potter had met Minerva's gaze, an invitation, of sorts, to share more than words, but thoughts and memories. Minerva was not a skilled Legilimens, but Severus was sure that it was Potter's skills that allowed the two to connect.

"You've loved and lost, risked your life to watch for Death Eaters during the first war, and fought for Gryffindor House in small and big ways through the years. You were nearly sorted into Ravenclaw, but the Sorting Hat recognized something far beyond your brilliant mind – it saw your strength of will. It saw the imposing, protective warrior who stood between me and my enemies during the Battle of Hogwarts. Who would have done anything to keep her students safe."

Minerva blinked away tears, her expression filled with shared grief and pain at Potter's memories of his future life. 

Potter took a deep breath and continued, his voice stronger now. "You're the grey-haired Headmistress who was never too tired or too busy to help a new teacher. To fill him with tea and biscuits and sage advice. And, when you finally retired eight years ago, to listen to all of his well-thought-out reasons why he should not take the Headmaster's position and then turn them around and convince him he should."

"Harry," Minerva murmured.

Severus' dramatic sigh caught them all by surprise. He closed his eyes to the two penetrating stares from across the small table and collected himself.

"Please," he groaned, "spare me from any more maudlin, tea-drinking tales of woe. I believe I have reached my quota this week."

This provoked a thin-lipped snort from Minerva and a surprised laugh from Potter. As if on cue, a tea service appeared on the table between them along with a mug of broth and Minerva's favorite shortbreads.

Potter had taken Minerva's thin hands in his own. "Had enough heart-to-hearts lately, Severus?"

"You have no idea." Severus drew the words out into a steady stream of bitterness.

Minerva harrumphed, straightening her spine. "I seem to be well behind on facts, gentlemen. That being the case, I, for one, agree with Mister Potter." She withdrew her hands from the boy's and drew a silver flask from an inside pocket of her robes. She lifted her eyebrows towards Severus as if expecting a disagreement. He merely held out his cup, Potter following suit.

"Broth first," Severus insisted. "I saw what you did not eat at supper."

Minerva and Severus waited, staring, until Potter down at least half of the steaming broth. "Well? Good enough?"

Severus nodded and sat back in his chair. "It has long been our custom that youngest pours." He nodded towards the tea set. "If you will."

Potter was watching Minerva tip a splash of scotch into his tea cup. "I'm sorry, but, that's you, Severus."

Minerva's eyebrows lifted high, but she asked no questions, merely screwed on the top of her flask tightly and lifted the teapot herself. "We could be here all night at this rate." After each had taken a warming sip, she folded her hands in her lap and looked at Harry expectantly.

"It's a long story," he sighed. "And I'm already tired of telling it."

"Three weeks ago, Harry Potter, aged 46, made a contract with Death to return to his fifteen-year-old self to kill Voldemort and change the future." Severus looked down his nose at Harry in triumph.

"Not as long as I thought," Potter muttered.

"Ah." Minerva swallowed the facts with a large mouthful of scotch-laced tea. "That explains your absence, your newly discovered Animagus powers, your sudden use of my given name without permission, and the fact that your knowledge of and performance of the Compleo Cruor spell could put most adults to shame." She pursed her lips. "I assume Dumbledore knows?"

"The three of us are Mister Potter's only confidantes at this point," Severus replied. "Lucky us."

"I see. And you intend to keep it that way?"

Potter shook his head. "I don't see how. I had intended to stay at Hogwarts to take my OWLs at the end of the year. But," he rubbed one finger along the edge of the cup in his lap, "now that Dumbledore has modified the school wards, I can't keep my inner shields intact. I look around at the students, my friends, and I can't help seeing them in the future, reliving it all. The battles. The deaths."

"You had stated that you would lose those future memories after you'd killed Voldemort."

"Death said they would fade." Potter grimaced, meeting Severus' dark gaze. "No, he said they 'might' fade." A laugh jerked from his chest. "I was more worried that they'd fade too quickly, before I'd found the horcruxes or sent off my notes about the research I'd been involved in." He frowned, "I must speak with you about that, Severus. I'd intended to right away, but -" Potter waved one hand in the air.

"Events have conspired to keep us busy."

Minerva had waited patiently through this exchange, but now put her tea cup down with a thump. "Notes about what, exactly? Something from the future? Information you did not want to lose?"

"Yes. I wanted to avoid some of the trouble we had after the war in my timeline. To make sure those who were guilty were caught right away." Potter's knuckles whitened as he gripped the fragile cup. "And to protect those who were targeted mistakenly, in the fervor to cleanse the world of anyone with a trace of darkness."

"Those undertakings you listed as your primary concerns are proceeding," Severus murmured. "However, I did not have the chance to study your other notes."

"My research." Potter's stark gaze landed squarely on Severus. "I didn't want to lose it all if I woke up one day and didn't remember a thing about my future. I was very close to a permanent solution to a potion I'd been working on for years." He nodded to Severus. "That's one reason I sent them to you. I knew you would understand."

"So, no list of Quidditch World Cup winners to bet on?" Minerva's mouth twisted up into a half-smile. "That was not very forward thinking of you."

Severus tilted his head. "You are taking all this rather well."

She leveled a scathing glance his way. "Something was clearly different. You don't think I'd have so easily agreed to Dumbledore's idea of having a fifth-year student teach Defense Against the Dark Arts – even one so skilled as Potter – if I hadn't sensed a change, do you? The boy is far too self-confident. And that Animagus transformation." She drew her head back and tsked. "I know a practiced Animagus when I see one. Why else did you think I sent him to the hospital wing for an entire slew of tests?"

"Don't mistake me," Minerva held up one hand. "It is quite a tale and quite an achievement. But, as much as I believe I'll miss Potter's younger antics – his inability to believe that school rules pertain to him, his throwing himself into each and every battle, and his penchant for finishing every school year in a bed in the hospital wing, to name a few - I am overjoyed that he has finished Voldemort with little effort and no repercussions for his friends. Or wizarding society in general."

"But, things will change. They are changing. Things I didn't anticipate." Potter moved restlessly. 

Severus rolled his eyes. "You regret not foreseeing that there would be unforeseen consequences?"

"Well it just sounds stupid when you say it that way," Potter replied.

"Indeed." Severus took a long drink of his tea, savoring the smoky depth given it by the scotch. "I have some thoughts in that regard. But, if I don't mistake the man entirely, I believe we are about to have a visitor." He cast a hasty spell and transfigured the couch Potter and Minerva were sitting on into two chairs, leaving an empty chair to Minerva's right.

Bright green flames blazed in Severus' fireplace and a singularly familiar voice spoke the password.

"Headmaster," Severus greeted the wizard. "We've been expecting you."


	23. A New Home

Remus would live. He would survive. His full healing would take weeks, but the crisis was over. Harry sat with his head in his hands, gratitude and relief shaking through him as Dumbledore discussed Remus' condition with Minerva. 

"When he's further stabilized and more able to do things for himself, he's decided to go back to Grimmauld Palace to recuperate."

"No." Harry's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. "Absolutely not."

"Harry –"

"Look beyond your nose for once," Harry bit out. "Sirius has neither the patience nor the attention to detail necessary to make sure Remus has everything he needs." He gestured towards the fireplace. "If the situation itself hasn't told you that, I don't know what will. If you let Remus go back with Sirius, it won't be twenty-four hours before the two of them will be in an even bigger mess."

Dumbledore looked askance at Minerva, his eyes narrowed. "I see." He set his folded hands in his lap. "I'm happy that you've chosen to confide in your Head of House, Harry. To trust her with your history. But, I do find myself disappointed in your characterization of the godfather who loves you so dearly." The wizard shook his head. "I had believed one of your reasons for returning was to save him from his dark fate. That you were intent on his safety. Was I incorrect?"

Harry had seen that sadly disappointed look on Dumbledore's face before. This time, he was decidedly unmoved by it.

"I love Sirius. But I don't put him on a pedestal. His behavior looks very different to a grown man than it does a lonely, fatherless boy of fifteen. I don't know if it was losing his best friend, realizing another had betrayed them, or twelve years in Azkaban that made Sirius Black the impulsive, risk-seeking man I had so very little time with - I never had a chance to find out." Harry forced back the memories. Sirius' tales of James and the Marauders. His tight hugs. The way he regarded Harry as an adult, capable of making his own decisions. How he'd come to Hogsmeade and lived as Padfoot in a cave eating rats to make sure Harry was safe. Other memories surfaced. How Sirius had called Harry by his father's name – more than once. How he'd urged Harry to take risks well beyond his years.

He straightened, his anger at Sirius' impulsive, reckless, idiotic confrontation with Greyback in Edinburgh dropping away. "What I do know is that Sirius cannot stay put and take care of a sick friend when there are still Death Eaters like Greyback out there. It will eat at him, tear at his soul. And neither man deserves that."

"I agree with Mister Potter," Minerva stated. "I've known Black and Lupin since they were students here. Sirius would make a difficult and exasperating nurse maid."

Dumbledore lifted his hands. "Well, I am at a loss as to suggest another option. He could stay here, I suppose."

"This is a school – and apparently, an office of justice and investigation – not a nursing home for recovering werewolves," Severus drawled.

"The next full moon is not for several weeks." Dumbledore gazed over the top of his half-moon glasses. "I believe Remus would recover more quickly if he was able to transform into his werewolf form. Not unlike an Animagus," Dumbledore winked at Harry, "the transformation of the human form can be known to heal."

"The werewolf transformation is nothing like an Animagus transformation," Harry replied. "Magically, anatomically – the blood-binding of the werewolf curse has nothing to do with the spellcraft of an Animagus. On the deepest level, the cellular level, the two are miles apart." He hated that twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes - the glitter of amusement. It was a show – a sham. The old wizard did like his bit of fun, but this conversation was so far from the concept that Harry recognized Dumbledore's forced playfulness for what it was. A smokescreen. A disguise pulled across his mind to keep others from realizing that he was manipulating the conversation. "I've studied both extensively. If Remus had been injured just before the full moon, he would have died during his next transformation. It wreaks havoc on the systems of a healthy wizard, let alone a critically injured one."

Before Harry could continue, Severus leaned forward, regarding him intently.

"You have made a study of this."

"Obviously," Harry answered, one eyebrow raised.

"The notes –"

"I'd prefer to discuss that later, if you don't mind." Harry cut him off. He would not get into a discussion of alchemy and distilling with Albus Dumbledore in the room. Harry didn't need any more interference from the man – not now. Not with something far more important hanging over his head.

After a moment of consideration, Severus nodded. "I shall make myself available for that discussion. Soon, I think, would be better than later."

"Indeed, we should get back to the topic before us," Dumbledore suggested. "If you don't wish Remus to recuperate with Sirius, what is your other alternative, Harry?"

"Simple." Harry raised an icy gaze to meet the headmaster's. "When he's ready to move, he can live with me."

"Live with –"

"You've called my bluff, Headmaster," Harry continued. "I thought we had an agreement."

"An agreement," Dumbledore repeated. "As I recall you requested very little from me, Harry. Only that I treat you as an adult, with the responsibilities of making your own financial and educational decisions."

"And how does charming the stones of Hogwarts into forcing me to reveal my nature comply with the idea of allowing me to make my own decisions?"  
.  
Dumbledore barely blinked. "I do not see what one has to do with the other."

"Headmaster." Harry infused as much impatience and disgust into that one word as he could. He noted the nasty smile curled across Severus' lips and took it as the Potions Master's approval.

"Harry, surely you can see beyond your own needs in this matter. There are hundreds of students at Hogwarts. Students, teachers, staff, not to mention those who are inhabiting the castle because of your own actions. The Wizengamot. Ministry officials. Reporters." Dumbledore sighed. "The wards are strong and meant to be so. We are holding trials. Having discussions that will set the future of many people – former Death Eaters, Voldemort's less active supporters, and those caught up with his followers without any intent to put their hands to his work. We have Lucius Malfoy's singular situation before us. We shall need all of the help we can get." He leaned in, as if to whisper a secret. "Would you make this work even harder simply to ease your own way?"

On Harry's left, Minerva snorted. "Oooh," she murmured excitedly to herself, "this should be good." Her gaze darted between Harry and Dumbledore, amusement crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Did I - did I say that out loud? It's only that I've always wondered if, someday, Harry, you might revolt against Albus' blatant manipulation. These little," she made a circular motion with one hand, "motivational speeches of his always struck me as heavy-handed, but then, I'm not a teenager faced with death at every turn."

"Minerva!"

"Oh, be quiet," the witch huffed at the headmaster. "The man is forty-six, not fourteen. Do you really think to shame him into obeying you by playing on his guilt or that blasted Gryffindor spirit that had him jumping straight into the fire over and over again? Don't be a fool."

She dragged the tea tray closer and poured a new cup, adding more than a tot of scotch to the dark brew before handing it across to Dumbledore. 

"Here. Based on Harry's expression, I believe you're going to need it."

The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes had disappeared. "Very well." He took the cup Minerva had extended and took a healthy sip before nodding at Harry. "Please continue."

"I'm afraid I'm going to need some help. If you wouldn't mind," Harry stated, never taking his eyes off of the headmaster.

"Of course," Dumbledore began, but Harry's quick head-shake stopped him.

"Not yours." He turned towards Severus. "I'll need to visit Gringotts and, since Apparating legally is still years away, I'm wondering if you'd have some time to accompany me this weekend."

"Strange," Severus replied, his nod conveying complete understanding of Harry's course of action. "I find myself in the same boat, Mister Potter." He crossed his arms. "You may accompany me on my own errands there."

"Thank you."

"Just a moment, Harry." Dumbledore frowned. "This weekend is the celebration – you don't want to miss it, do you? Your friends will surely expect you to take part, especially in the Quidditch practices."

The boy smiled. "Oh, I think I should be able to fit in a visit to Diagon Alley between Quidditch and spending time with my friends and their families and having a long conversation with Sirius."

"But, why is this visit so important? You could simply owl the bank and make a withdrawal, or allow me to make one for you –"

"As we agreed," Harry interrupted, "my financial decisions are mine alone. And, if I'm to locate and purchase a home outside of Hogwarts, I will need to see the goblins in person to assign a legal guardian and sign the proper forms."

Beside him, Severus nodded. The wizard seemed to be on-board. Harry steeled himself. The special request he intended to make of Severus might throw all of his plans into disarray.

"I, too, will be seeking assistance with matters of property," Severus stated. "For now, our needs run in parallel, Mister Potter. It may make acquiring the necessary agents simpler if we combine our inquiries."

Even better. Harry let some of the tension thrumming through his body relax.

"Severus? But – a home, Harry? What about -" Dumbledore began.

"You don't for a moment believe that I would set one foot in the Dursley's house again, do you?" Harry scoffed. "Voldemort is dead. The blood wards are no longer necessary. You can't make the argument that I need to be protected, or that I would be helpless outside of Hogwarts."

Dumbledore's blue eyes were shadowed with concern. "But you've always asked to remain at Hogwarts. Harry, you've said time after time that Hogwarts is your home. I'd have thought that you'd wish to remain here between terms." He set his cup on the table and rested his hands on his knees. "You've said you have research to conduct, something about potions. You could easily do all that at Hogwarts."

"I did consider that, but you've made it impossible," Harry replied evenly.

"I?" Dumbledore pressed a hand to his chest. "How?"

Thankfully, Severus stepped in before Harry lost what little control he'd managed to hang on to. "Albus, please. These wards you've put in place may be necessary for the 'greater good,' but they also have stiff consequences for those who live here. As you are well aware." He rose and stood at Harry's side. "It is your decision, of course, to give the ministry and high courts every tool to make wise decisions. It is our decision to find our own answers. One of them seems to be to leave Hogwarts – in spirit, at least. To acknowledge a home outside its walls and wards." He drew himself up stiffly. "Mister Potter and I will both be seeking to acquire homes as soon as possible."

"I see." Dumbledore smoothed his features, but his clouded gaze revealed a mind spinning with possibilities.

"Wise decisions." Minerva doctored another cup of tea and sat back comfortably. "It is about time you got rid of that dusty old wreck at Spinner's End, Severus. It's never been a true home to you. And now that your future – a future we all feared would be cut short by Voldemort – looks brighter, you should take care to find somewhere you can," her smile grew wider, "let your hair down, so to speak." She hid the smirk – unsuccessfully - behind her teacup.

"You agree with this, Minerva?" 

It seemed that Dumbledore had finally realized that he had few allies in this room. Harry hoped his gratitude was obvious to his former professors.

"Do I agree that both Harry and Severus' circumstances have changed, and irrevocably so? Yes. I may be old, but I can certainly see the handwriting on the wall, Albus. It is, after all, written in large glowing letters, isn't it?" Her wand was in her hand and a banner – green and silver, to avoid irritating the Slytherin resident of the room they sat in – strung itself across Severus' mantle. 'A New Dawn,' glowed in ten-inch high lettering. 

"Oh yes," Minerva chuckled to herself. "A new dawn, indeed."


	24. Nervus Potestas

The castle was quiet, the long hallways drifting with shadows. The staircases rested, waiting for the morning and the next set of students to baffle. Harry had always felt at home here, in the night. Out past curfew under his invisibility cloak, or pacing the corridors as a teacher, the Marauders' Map in his hand, finding lingering students in unlikely corners. 

The meeting between Minerva, Severus, and Dumbledore had gone long and had ended, expectedly, with Dumbledore's grudging acceptance of Harry's plans. The old wizard might have been caught off-guard, surprised by the idea of two of his loyal chessmen venturing off the board, but he'd be quick to find an advantage in the situation. Albus Dumbledore had survived against Grindelwald, Riddle, the ministry, and all others because of his innate power, yes, but also because of his agile mind. Harry ducked his head, hands in his pockets. He would never bet against Dumbledore – in this life or any other.

He thought back to the headmaster's carefully designed discussion. When the echo of Harry's insistence on finding a new home had died down and Severus had again taken his seat, Dumbledore had revealed the news of Lucius' trial like a stone dropping into an already frothy pool, sending the ripples out and back in different directions. Harry was still feeling the turmoil.

"Are they going to allow Dobby to testify?" Harry had asked.

Dumbledore had hummed, sipping his tea, sending Harry's back up.

Minerva's patience had been running even shorter than Harry's. "For Merlin's sake, Albus, open your mouth."

Finally, Dumbledore admitted that the testimony of the Malfoy house elf would be accepted by the Wizengamot. However, other testimony would also be sought out. Testimony to Lucius Malfoy's actions as a Death Eater. His threats. His cruelties. Severus would be the star witness.

Severus, apparently, had anticipated it. He did not argue.

Harry's footsteps were soft, muffled against the long, dark rug that ran all along the castle's back corridor. He should have known. If Severus had survived the war in his own timeline, he would have been front and center for every Death Eater trial. His memories would have been searched for each evil act, for every word that was spoken describing tortures, murders, extortions, all done at the hands of dark wizards. Harry stopped, one hand on the stone wall, his eyes closed tight.

Severus would have to relive every moment of his time as a spy standing at Voldemort's right hand, observing – or taking part in – horrible atrocities. He shivered.

At Dumbledore's words, Harry's face must have revealed his horror, but Severus had merely looked at him and smiled.

"It could not happen any other way. Surely you realized that."

The sad thing was, Harry really hadn't. He'd been so intent on making sure Severus survived the war, he had not considered that the wizard would be dumped into the situation Harry had found himself in. Not treated as the Saviour of the Wizarding World, exactly, but as the man with all the answers. His testimony, instead of Harry's, putting witches and wizard in prison for life – or sentencing them to fates even worse.

The discussion had broken down at that point, with Harry locked into a mental maelstrom, trying to pick apart the Wizengamot's motivation, to see a way around Severus' responsibilities to give up his memories.

It had been Dumbledore's voice that had broken through Harry's distress. He had always been a master at reading Harry's emotions, at finding the key that unlocked Harry's guilt and tuned his heart towards Dumbledore's priorities. It was one of the headmaster's cruelest talents – his ability to press Harry's buttons, to manipulate his emotions. While Harry had been struggling with Severus' fate, Dumbledore had opened another wound.

"Don't you think you've made Sirius wait long enough?" the Headmaster had whispered.

Dumbledore's dark gaze had confirmed that the old man had known exactly what he was asking. Had Harry forgotten about Sirius? Shouldn't Harry tell Sirius who he was? The man who had lost his mind when Harry's parents had been murdered, spent twelve years in prison, and then had broken out to avenge the Potters and protect Harry stood a few stories above him. And Harry was more worried about Lucius Malfoy. About 'Snivellus Snape's' feelings. About finding a home and leaving Hogwarts. A home independent of his godfather.

Sirius. Harry had nearly forgotten that his godfather had been waiting all this time in the hospital wing. Sirius would not sit quietly at Remus' bedside – it was far more likely he'd be pacing frantically through Hogwarts' halls searching for Harry. Harry had been so angry at Sirius' appearance, furious that he'd wasted Harry's return and had rushed right back into danger, dragging Remus with him. Maybe that hadn't been fair. The two should talk. Really talk.

"You cannot live with Black." Severus' immediate response to Dumbledore's question still rang in ears.

There would always be resentment between Severus and Sirius. Those childish attitudes seemed beyond healing, beyond logic, and had sunken so deep that Harry couldn't reach them. But, deep down, Harry agreed. Harry, an adult, a wizard on the verge of success with his life's work, could not live as a child under Sirius' wing. No matter what he owed the man, no matter the guilt that had eaten away at him in his original timeline because of Sirius' death, Harry could not pretend to be the reincarnation of James Potter that Sirius would demand.

That did not mean that Harry didn't owe Sirius an explanation. Friendship. Help and healing, so that Sirius could get on with his life just as Harry would with his. He'd left the Hogwarts' teachers to their scotch-laced tea, determined to do one thing right. To speak with Sirius. To begin a conversation about forgiveness, and life, and healing.

Harry opened his eyes and moved down the hallway. He had set a sphere of light to follow him, high, behind his head, so that he could see the way in front of him. The long corridor behind the hospital wing was lined with paintings, stark landscapes showing barren trees, ships beached and broken, still lifes where the scene seemed caught by the artist just after a calamity. Fitting, he thought. These back halls contained private rooms where family or friends could take a few moments from their bedside vigils to sleep, eat, or collect themselves. Where medical witches and wizards could catch a few hours of rest before they reentered the battle for a young person's life. Happy spring meadows under sun-shiny skies would have mocked their concern.

Between Harry's childhood at Hogwarts and his return as a teacher, Harry had walked many similar hallways. Had waited through operations and treatments for battle veterans, for friends, for children, for those who had been injured – mentally and physically – by Voldemort and his minions. He had sat quietly at bedsides, had observed the healers' practices, and had his questions answered honestly and patiently because he was the Boy Who Lived. It was in corridors like this one that Harry had made his promises and taken his vows. Vows to heal. To help. To find answers.

"Good evening, sir."

Harry stopped at the portrait at the end of the hall. It held a shadowed scene – an unassuming man sitting in a dark armchair within a towering library, the rays of a full moon laying a white path through a set of tall windows onto an antique rug. Silver-grey hair was brushed back from a high forehead, the wizard's old-fashioned robes cut in a style that Harry remembered seeing in Medieval French manuscripts. A woman wandered into the frame, staring down at a book in her hands. Her long white hair was loose around her shoulders and a set of heavy goggles hung around her neck.

"Sir. Ma'am," Harry greeted them. "How are you both this evening?"

A grin turned the deep creases around the man's eyes into laugh-lines. "I believe we are as well as we have ever been, don't you think, Perenelle?"

Her smile was smaller, but just as kind. "Lovely. It is quite a restful and refreshing afterlife. Not at all what I expected."

The wizard reached up and took the woman's hand in his. "You know who this is, don't you, my dear? I recognized him right away."

Harry stood taller, as if under the scrutiny of an unknown set of grandparents. He was sure he had not met either person in this life – or any other. Apparently, his scar made him famous even in the afterlife.

"No, darling, who is it?"

"It's Harry Potter, my dear."

The witch put her book down on a triangular table at the man's right hand. "Is it really?"

The titles would come next, Harry knew. The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. He waited patiently, unwilling to be rude even to portraits.

"Yes, it is. Harry Potter. The wizard who invented Nervus Potestas."

The witch turned to Harry, her blue eyes glittering. "Amazing work, Master Potter. Truly. Why the sheer magnitude of the endeavor must have been daunting."

"The – what?" Harry took a step towards the portrait in reflex. "How did you – you say I invented it? Already? How could you – I mean, I haven't finalized –"

"Oh, dear." The wizard patted the witch's hand. "We've been moving again, my darling."

The witch smiled fondly down at him. "I warned you that might happen. Once one has touched the beyond, one tends to come a bit unglued from linear experience, you know." She turned back to wink at Harry. "If you haven't finished your work, Master Potter, please, please be diligent to do so." Her faint eyebrows crinkled. "There are so many, so very many, who need it."

"Indeed," the wizard added, nodding towards the end of the hallway where Harry had been headed. "Those two, especially." He drew a pocket watch from his vest pocket. "Some have been waiting a very long time."

The witch held up one finger. "Long to some. To others it has been but a moment."

"Correct as always, my dear."

"Please." Harry wished the two would be quiet, so he could ask one question – or a thousand. "The spell work is finished, but I'm missing a key ingredient. I'd thought working with Severus would help, but, I haven't had time to –"

"Oh, _time_ ," the wizard chuckled. "Let's not bring time into it. That will only muddle your thinking." He tilted his head. "Haven't you found it so already? Muddle-headed thinking will not help you complete your mission here, Master Potter."

The witch reached down to pull the green-lensed goggles up over her eyes. "Severus Snape? Excellent. Very good choice. We've heard some marvelous things about his brewing."

Harry stood before the portrait, his mouth open. 

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

"I, yes, I mean, of course I want to proceed quickly." Harry pulled himself together. "But I want to proceed carefully, as well. I don't want to add any pain to my patients' lives. Could you, perhaps, point me in the right direction?"

The wizard grunted, both hands on the arms of his chair as if to rise. The witch gripped one elbow to assist him and shook her head.

"We are always happy to help one of our own, Master Potter."

"One of –" Harry cut himself off. "You are brewers as well? Inventors?" He shrugged. "You know my name – will you tell me yours?"

"Your reputation obviously precedes you, sir. The Child Saviour. Talented teacher. Headmaster of Hogwarts. Master Alchemist. Inventor of Nervus Potestas. And slayer of Voldemort."

The wizard finally made it to his feet. "I believe you'll find us when you have need of us, Master Potter. In fact, I'm sure of it." He linked his arm through the witch's. "Come and find us again when you need us. As my wife has said, we are always happy to lend aid." The two bent their greyed heads together and began to amble towards the portrait's frame.

"Sir. Ma'am. Wait."

As the two moved slowly out of his sight, the witch leaned back in for a moment, her eyes made huge by the goggles she wore. "We cannot wait, Master Potter. And neither should you. Don't let the old codger distract you from what you know to be your own truth. Your truth is held fast within you – be sure of that." She turned to address someone out of sight. "I'll be right along, dearest. Now," she turned back, "go. Steady your heart. Seal yourself to the proper partner. You'll see us again, I promise."

And then they were gone.

_Nervus Potestas._ The distillation procedure was written large on Harry's memory; days and nights of brewing, of spell work, of research had led Harry to the beginning of an answer. But, it was only the beginning. In order to do what Harry had sworn he would accomplish, the potion must be strengthened, given more power to undo damage and to bring a wizard's – or witch's - central nervous system back into alignment. 

In a sense, the two wizards were right. Hogwarts was a distraction. The wards, the power-plays, the machinations of Dumbledore – that was obviously the old codger the witch had warned him about. Not to mention his friends, his need to play the role of a student with Ron and Hermione, Neville and Luna. And the role of a godson with Sirius. Harry turned away from the painting, his heart aching. 

He'd sworn that this time around, it would be different. With Voldemort gone, Harry would get it right. He would devote himself to his mission, to perfecting Nervus Potestas. To healing those with no hope. But now, everything was so complicated. Severus being forced to testify. Sirius just beyond the door at the end of the hall, dragging Remus into danger. His friends' smiling faces waiting for him in the Common Room, expecting Harry to be the boy they'd sacrificed so much for. He lowered his head into his hands. It was too much – too many expectations. He'd hurried into a bargain with Death believing he could change it all. Change it for the better. But, holding onto his own ideals and responsibilities without shutting out his friends seemed impossible.

"One step at a time, Master Potter."

Harry lifted his head at the witch's murmur. No, the old couple were still gone, vanished from their portrait. She'd said he'd done it. That Harry had perfected Nervus Potestas. In some timeline, on some plane of existence, he'd been successful. It was possible. _It was possible._

He straightened. His mind quieting as he took in a deep breath, Harry nodded sharply and walked towards the door.


	25. Bravery

"Harry!" Sirius lunged towards him from his restless pacing beside Remus' bed. "I thought you'd have been here hours ago."

The wizard's strong, lean arms came around Harry's shoulders and held on tight. For a moment, the complicated layers of Harry's new existence and the plots and plans necessary to complete his work went on wrestling in his mind. But once Harry leaned against Sirius' wiry frame and felt the man's rough beard against his cheek, he closed his eyes and let the grieving child inside of him rise up, his loss and guilt swept away by the fierce love and joy of this reunion. 

"Sirius," he choked, his throat thick. "Sirius. I've missed you so much."

Alive. Sirius was alive. Healed by Poppy's spells and tonics. Warm, strong arms held him hard as emotions rocked through Harry. Joy. Relief. Gratitude. The sorrow for the losses of his former life, of all the years he'd spent missing this, had hollowed out a place within Harry's soul. That place would take time to fill. Harry held on tighter.

Sirius all but buzzed with restrained eagerness, rubbing Harry's back, patting his shoulders, and ruffling his hair, leaning back and forth to take long looks into Harry's eyes. "An Animagus, Harry! And figuring it out all alone - I'm so proud of you!" He grasped Harry's shoulders and gave him a little shake. "Your dad and I had Remus' formidable mind to help us work it all out, but," Sirius shook his head, his eyes alight and a sly grin on his face, "you've put us all to shame! I want to hear all about it."

"I –" Knocked back a step, Harry tried to recover his equilibrium.

"I'm surprised, you know. Since I've seen your Patronus. I'd have thought you'd be a stag like dear old Prongs." Sirius tsked. "A bobcat is it?"

"A lynx," Harry corrected automatically.

"McGonagall must be busting at the seams." Callused hands cradled Harry's face. Sirius' grin sagged, dark eyes losing their glitter. "She's not the only one proud of you, you know." Sirius head shook back and forth in amazement. "James – well, he'd have been boring all of us with tales of your exploits for years. His little boy, all grown up."

Harry blinked at the sudden tears in his eyes. To hear these words from Sirius' lips. To know the wizard had been proud of him – it meant everything. He swallowed. Even to a forty-six-year-old man. He clung to the sleeves of Sirius' robes. "I wish –" he began.

"I know." For an instant, Sirius was still, meeting Harry's gaze, love and loss binding them close. "I wish he were here, too. And your mum. I wish it every day."

"You're here," Harry breathed, joy bubbling up through his confused memories. "You're here, alive, healing. Sirius –"

"I can just imagine his face," Sirius continued, "that huge proud grin of his. That messy hair." He gave Harry's another rustle. "Even now."

A pain shot through Harry's heart. "'Even now?'"

"Well," Sirius made a face, "we were all wrong, weren't we? Thought taking the bloody bastard down was up to you." He laughed. "To find you were hunting rabbits in the Forbidden Forest all this time – gagging up furballs – not exactly the stuff of legends we were expecting."

Harry's shock must have been clear on his face.

"Hush, now," Sirius said. He pulled Harry back in for another hug. "It's over. You're safe. That's all that matters."

"Is it?"

Sirius dropped his arms. "What do you mean?"

The inner child that Harry had let loose couldn't be reined in easily. "Are you disappointed, Sirius? Disappointed that I didn't grow up to kill Voldemort? That I hadn't been captured by him, tortured, and managed, somehow, to fight him off? To limp back alive, trailing blood? Upset that my great adventure wasn't so great after all?"

"Harry – what are you talking about?"

Harry chased the flickering shadows behind Sirius' eyes, searching for the truth. He'd known the man for only a few short years. Years darkened by war and fear and suspicion. Years after Sirius' long imprisonment, when his body and mind had been bent and broken by Dementors and grief and guilt. Harry closed his eyes and gathered his faltering control.

Time to begin again. To set a new dynamic for his and Sirius' interactions. He knew his godfather was fiercely protective, even if he was also impulsive and reckless at times. Dumbledore was right – Sirius deserved the truth. It was time to tell his story. He opened his eyes. "We have a lot to talk about."

"All too true, pup." Sirius seemed relieved by Harry's change of topic. He glanced over at the sleeping figure on the infirmary cot.

"How's Remus?" Harry took a step towards the bed, relief washing over him at the pink in Remus' cheeks, the even, steady rise and fall of his chest.

Sirius stared down at his best friend. "Good. Poppy believes he'll make a full recovery." He turned back with a frown on his face. "I know I was a bit distracted down in the Entrance Hall, but Cumpleo Cruor? How did you manage that? Only Aurors are taught that spell. But, then again, you've managed to do a lot more than a young man your age should be able to do, haven't you?"

"I managed to do more," Harry replied, eyes on the wounded man in the bed, "because I've had to. I've had no choice."

"I know," Sirius whispered. "And learned it on your own, too. You and your friends. Lions, all of you." 

Harry couldn't miss the love – the satisfaction - in Sirius' voice. A flash of memory took him back to his former life. The Department of Mysteries. His friends captured by Death Eaters because Harry had been tricked into believing Voldemort's vision. Ron – confused, in constant pain from the brain's tentacles. Neville - facing the witch who had tortured his parents into madness. And Sirius, leaning down, insisting that Harry had done brilliantly.

Brilliantly. In the moment, it had warmed Harry's heart. Looking back, he'd been appalled by the consequences of his actions. The injuries. Fourteen and fifteen-year-olds trying to survive against fully trained Death Eaters. He'd seen it all in Lucius Malfoy's sly grin as he held out his hand for the prophecy. The Death Eaters had been toying with them. Ordered to refrain from killing them all. Malfoy's orders had been the only thing that could save them that night.

Harry dropped his head. "I did the best I could," he reminded himself in a determined whisper.

Sirius took Harry's arm and urged him away from Remus' sleeping figure to the other side of the large hospital room. He sat Harry down beside him on the last empty bed in the room, farthest away from Madam Pomfrey's office and her listening ears. "Now that Voldemort is gone, we really need to talk, Harry. To discuss what happens now."

Harry sighed. "Yes, I have quite a lot to –"

"Of course, until we've managed to round up the last few Death Eaters that have escaped, Remus and I will be busy. Once he's got a bit of rest and is on his feet again." The gleam in Sirius' eyes was back and brighter than ever. "I know you're still in school, but, I've had an idea. And with what you've already accomplished, and your history, I know this ending," he made a frustrated gesture with one hand, "will not sit well with you. You've always wanted to be in the thick of it. Making a difference. Taking on your parents' legacy."

Harry shook his head, frowning.

"I've already sent a message to Shacklebolt at the ministry about it. Getting a special license for you and maybe some of your friends to help us. Train up the younger generation, you know, sort of on-the-job. Best way to learn." He nudged Harry in the shoulder. "It's what you're meant to do. You know it in your heart."

"What?" Harry's mind spun. He couldn't be serious.

"You'd come with me, Harry. Stand at my side, face the enemy together! It's what James and I did during the first war, you know." Sirius seemed lost in his reminiscences. "James and Remus and I. With you beside us, no one could stand in our way!"

"I'm not James, Sirius." Harry tried to make the other man understand. "Sirius. I'm not my father. I'm not even -"

"Oh, I know that, pup." Sirius dug one finger into Harry's chest. "But he's in there. Your mum, too. Two braver souls I've never known. Damn, they were good. Bright. Talented. No one could stand against us when we were together."

"No one except Voldemort."

Sirius' mouth snapped shut. He glared. "I don't have to be reminded of that."

"No?" The raging anger Harry remembered from his first stint as a fifteen-year-old had been growing since he'd seen Sirius and Remus stumble through the Floo. It had dimmed a bit during his discussion with Dumbledore and the strange confrontation with the couple in the hall. Now it burst into inner incandescence, uncontainable. "It seems that you've completely forgotten that my mum and dad were murdered in front of me, their baby son. That I lost something that day that I'll never get back. You might have lost your best friend and twelve years of life in Azkaban, but have you ever thought about what I've lost? What has been demanded of me ever since?" 

Harry rose slowly from the bed, careful to keep his voice low and controlled so he wouldn't disturb Remus' rest or draw Poppy from her office. "Do you honestly expect me, a fifth-year, to leave school to chase highly skilled wizards, desperate criminals, wizards and witches who are vastly more powerful than I am? Who will fight to the death – mine, yours, theirs, and any others' who get in their way – rather than be captured? Is that the kind of life you imagine for me? The kind of danger you want me – and my school-friends - to face day after day, with only a few childish hexes at our disposal?"

"It's not a question of want, Harry." Sirius also rose, frowning, one hand extended. "It's a question of what is necessary and who is strong enough to take up the task. Don't sell yourself short. You've done exceptional magic. You're an Animagus. You produced a corporeal Patronus at thirteen. You are the Chosen One."

"Chosen for what?" Harry demanded.

"To fight!" Sirius curled his hand into a fist. "To fight evil! To combat the darkness!"

"Chosen to die, you mean."

"What? No!" Sirius lowered his head and held up both hands as if to hold back the conversation by sheer will. "Just. Harry." Sirius took in a deep breath and then met Harry's angry gaze. "You've always said you wanted to fight. To stand beside me, beside us. To do more. Has that changed?"

Harry shook his head, struggling to control his frustration. "There are a lot of ways to fight evil, Sirius."

A quick look of disgust swept across Sirius' face. "Waiting in the background. Talking. Making plans or potions or whispering in people's ears. That's not our way, Harry. It wasn't your father's way, either."

Harry grunted as Sirius' comments drove the air from his lungs. Stunned, he took a step away, trying to distance himself from his godfather's rejection of his life's work.

But Sirius wasn't finished. "Harry. Think, about it. Taking the fight to the enemy. It's why your mother gave her life for you, so that you could win the battle she couldn't! You owe her, Harry."

A burst of raw magic hurled Sirius backwards, sending him sprawling on the cot and shoving the bed to bang against the wall. Something was going on behind him – probably Poppy hurrying from her office to check on Remus – but Harry did not turn. Breathing hard, Harry cast a quick silencing spell around the two and stalked towards the wide-eyed wizard. He could not take his eyes off of the man he'd known as his parents' best friend, his godfather. The only father-figure he'd ever known.

Until now.

Wand in his hand, Harry stood over Sirius, his rage burning down to smoking embers. "My mother," Harry began, his voice soft and threatening, "fought to protect me with every ounce of her power – magical or otherwise. To protect me from Voldemort, from evil, so that I would be safe. She fought with her last breath to keep her baby safe. Unharmed. She did not stand between her child and certain death so that he would chase after danger. Do you think, had she not been murdered, my mother would spend my life to help you redeem your lost time? So that you could live that life you loved over again, with a James replacement by your side?"

Sirius seemed stupified even though Harry had not spoken that particular curse. He opened his mouth and shook his head, but no words sounded from between his lips. Harry was relieved. He didn't think he had it in him to be merciful if the wizard brought his mother – or father – into this discussion again.

"Wizards and muggles have been fighting evil for centuries, and will keep on fighting that battle, day after day. They fight it in many ways. They fight with kindness, with compassion, using the weapons at hand. Children stand up for those bullied instead of becoming bullies themselves." He watched the words slam into Sirius with the force of a hex. "Adults reach out to help a friend. Ministers fight for laws that protect innocents. Healers take oaths and teachers lead their charges to discipline their minds. To reject cruelty. To temper their emotions with reason and selflessness."

Harry took a deep breath and regarded the man before him. Compassion softened his heart and released the tension in his muscles. "You've been damaged in that battle, Sirius. Hurt. The injuries you received at the hands of the Dementors, living on that barren rock with no hope, no joy, only the horrible memory of Pettigrew's betrayal and my mum and dad's death – it's been carved deep into your mind, your brain, your nerves." He lowered his wand, reaching deep for his own central truth, as the woman in the portrait advised him. Reaching for his calling. "I'm going to help you. Help Remus. Help both of you recover. If you'll let me." He pressed his lips tight. "But you'll have to be alive for it to make any difference."

"'Recover?'" Sirius jammed an elbow beneath him, lurching upright on the bed. "What are you talking about? I'm fine! Strong, stronger than ever. Now is the time, Harry, now is the time to strike! To finish your parents' work, to pay back their sacrifice."

Harry closed his eyes, drawing on the last ghostly images of his parents in the Forbidden Forest as he walked to his death. He remembered the grief in their eyes, the tears on his mother's cheeks. Their soft reassurances. It bore no resemblance to Sirius' fierce eagerness for battle. They'd been resigned to Harry's fate, sorrowful and grieving. 

"A wise man once said that there are two types of people," Harry began again. "Those who seek battle and seem not to fear death, and those who avoid battle, but will stand and fight to the death if their loved ones are threatened.* There are more ways to fight evil than your way. More than pitched battles where men and women pound at each other with spells and steel, where death and injury and loss aren't considered 'understandable' or 'acceptable.'

Harry tried one last time. "My mother and father are the last people who would want to see me rush towards battle when others were more qualified, better trained, or more capable of securing victory." He opened tear-filled eyes. "If there had been any other way of defeating Voldemort, they would, themselves, have barred my way." He pressed his lips closed, his jaw tense. "I'll fight evil in my own way, and, maybe you don't think much of that. But, I'm not like you, Sirius. And, maybe, I'm not that much like James, either. Not if he would want his teen-aged son to charge blindly into danger at your side."

Sirius' forehead was crumpled in confusion, but Harry found that he couldn't explain. Not right now – not to this man. "I'm glad you survived, Sirius. I'm happy that I was able to clear your name, that you can walk freely in life, seek healing, and start over. But, if you really want this – if you can't see any other future for me – then you are not the man I once thought you were. And I cannot – I will not – be seeking your counsel as to my future. Nor Remus' future." Harry jerked his head towards the injured man's bed. "Go. Go ahead and chase Greyback if you must. Just don't expect me – or my friends – to put our lives and our futures at risk to help you in this insane quest. I pray – for your sake – that others find him first."

He turned his back on the wizard's choked pleas, the shuffling and rustling as Sirius jumped from the bed and tried to follow.

"Harry – Harry I didn't mean – listen, this isn't coming out right at all –"

Harry strode towards Remus' bed where the wizard still slept and where Poppy was frozen between her desire to tend to her patient and her curiosity about Harry and Sirius' confrontation. Harry lifted his wand and jerked it back over his shoulder, slamming Sirius back onto the bed, knocking his wand from his hand and locking him into a full body-bind. He walked through the edge of his silencing spell and strengthened it behind him to lock away groans or murmurs as Sirius struggled. Hopefully the wizard would exhaust himself shortly and fall asleep. Perhaps things would look clearer to him in the morning, when the spell wore off. Perhaps he could still be proud of Harry. For something.

"I apologize, Madam Pomfrey. Please, is Remus all right? I'm not sure I believe Sirius' assurances." Harry swallowed down his pride and blinked fifteen-year-old innocent eyes at the witch.

"Yes, yes, don't you worry, Mister Potter. Professor Lupin will make a full recovery." Poppy searched over Harry's shoulder, frowning. "Just what is that miscreant Black up to now?"

"Sirius seems a little confused," Harry ground out between his teeth. "I think he just needs to sleep. Can he stay here?"

"Of course, of course. I'll keep an ear out for him and for the professor. Now, you shouldn't be out this late," she began to scold, finally realizing that, as a student, Harry was out far beyond curfew. "Are you hurt?"

Harry thought fast. "Professor McGonagall said I might have nightmares after my Animagus transformation. She thought I might need help – to sleep." The half-lie felt like a mouthful of hot needles.

Nodding, the witch hurried towards a locked cabinet next to the door leading to her office. "Professor McGonagall will know best in these situations," she muttered to herself. "Youngsters locking themselves into animal shapes. Not since these two rapscallions have I had to deal with such things." She turned back, handed Harry a single-serving potion of Dreamless Sleep, and walked him towards the door. "Get along back to Gryffindor Tower, now. There's been enough excitement for one night – for an entire month of nights, if I'm not mistaken."

As he turned into the hallway, Harry couldn't help checking. Remus slept on, his hands folded across his bandaged chest. Across the long hospital room, Sirius stared at him. 

"He'll be all right, dear," Madam Pomfrey whispered, one hand on his shoulder.

"He will," Harry answered firmly. Walking down the hallway towards his bed, unwanted potion clutched in one hand, he continued, "They both will. I will make sure of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - quoted from the pilot ep of The Magnificent Seven. Shout out to Mag7 fans.


	26. Magic Doesn't Lie

Neville stared into the red and gold flames flickering in the fireplace of the Gryffindor Common Room. Others had waited with him, at first. But, one by one, they'd all gone to bed, leaving him alone in the middle of the sofa where Harry and Ron and Hermione often perched. The Trio. Leaders of Gryffindor House. It didn't matter that they were only fifth-years – Harry and Ron and Hermione had led Gryffindor House since the first time they'd fought off Voldemort's spirit for the Philosopher's Stone.

Ever since the night that Neville had tried to stop them from losing more points for Gryffindor, he'd been trying to live up to their standards. To be brave enough – strong enough – to stand beside them. His grandmother had raised Neville with stories of the Order of the Phoenix. The larger-than-life characters that had stood beside his mother and father against the darkness. Dumbledore. Black. Lupin. The Weasleys. Ron's uncles, the Prewitt brothers. The Bones. Marlene McKinnon, Neville's mother's closest friend. And James and Lily Potter.

Footsteps on the stairs behind him jerked Neville from his thoughts.

"Thought you might still be here."

Ron fell into the chair set at one end of the sofa, bare feet jammed onto the low table in front.

"You did?" Neville frowned. He'd figured Ron would be dead asleep by now, snoring up a storm.

"Don't tell me," Ron began, his voice mocking. "All Ron cares about is eating, sleeping, and keeping his brothers from taking the mickey out of him."

His eyes might look half-mast, bored or tired, his posture relaxed, but Neville had a feeling that behind the familiar attitude, Ron was awake, alert, and – possibly – angry.

"I'm sorry." Neville paused, not really sure what he was apologizing for.

"Nah, forget it." Ron waved a hand through the air. "I'm not mad at you, Neville."

"But you are mad."

Ron sighed, long and loud. "People forget, don't they? Forget what being a Longbottom or a Weasley means. Forget that the two of us have more pureblood magical genealogy behind us than practically anyone else in Gryffindor."

Neville sat back against the cushions. "Funny to hear you talk about 'purebloods.'"

"Yeah, well, I'm not saying it makes us superior or anything, like that prig Malfoy says it," Ron insisted. "But, still, it's true. We've been raised with magic. The two of us. Close to the ministry. Close to the center of the wizarding world." He shrugged. "Can't help learning things when every member of your family is doing spells and talking about magical theory and history around you all day long."

A smile teased at Neville's lips. "You mean you think you can learn things without re-reading 'Hogwarts, A History' over and over again?"

Ron laughed and then sent a guilty look towards the stairs that led to the girls' dormitory. "Poor Hermione. Just imagine what she could do if she hadn't been raised a muggle."

"Now that's a scary thought." Neville shivered. Hermione was an amazing witch – far ahead of anyone else in their year, probably than in sixth- or seventh-year, for that matter. But she came at magic from another direction, a different mind-set than Ron and he did.

"You have no idea," Ron breathed, eyes wide open. "Anyway, Neville, no sense in denying what we both saw down in the Entrance Hall."

Frowning, Neville let his gaze drift back to the fire. "I must be mistaken. Remembering wrong or something. But it keeps racing around in my brain and I can't get it to stop." He was tired. He wanted to go to bed, to close his eyes and pretend there was an explanation for what he'd seen. But something kept him from believing the comforting lies he wanted to tell himself.

Ron spoke from his right, but Neville didn't turn to look at him.

"Yeah, tried that myself. I do that a lot around Harry, actually. Always have." A snort. "It's the only way I get to sleep at night."

"I learned about Harry Potter from Gran. She liked to tell me stories about my parents, about the old days when they fought Vol- Voldemort the first time." Those stories had been precious to Neville. More than history, they had connected him to his parents, to the people they'd been before … _before_. The stories had turned them from cripples, from quivering figures mumbling to themselves at St. Mungo's into a real man and a real woman. People who laughed and smiled, who had loved each other. Loved Neville. Remembered his name.

"Funny, my parents didn't like to talk about it at all. Not once I came along, anyway." Ron shifted, the chair creaking underneath him. "Now, Bill and Charlie, they were great ones for stories. They'd lead us all out into the gardens and split us into teams – one side the Order and the other Death Eaters. Once Ginny was born they'd hide her behind a shrub or a cabbage, set a silencing and movement ward around her, and tell us she was Harry Potter, and, if a Death Eater stumbled over her, he was instantly killed and out of the game."

Neville imagined the brood of Weasley children, sticks for wands, playing at fighting Voldemort. "I got to play with my cousins, sometimes. But mostly they liked fairy stories – castles and princes and the like."

"Girl stuff," Ron commented.

Neville nodded.

"I learned a lot from Bill and Charlie. Used to follow them around and watch them practice spells. I learned how to fly before I could walk, hanging onto Bill's back. I don't think anybody really took the underage restrictions seriously back then – not in magical families, anyway."

"How could they?" Neville had always wondered about that. "I mean, every-day magic was all around us. My cousins liked to transform their tree house into a castle with turrets and a real moat. And I'm sure, with all your brothers, your house was filled with magic all the time."

"Harry loved to visit."

Neville glanced over at Ron. He was sitting forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. A smile on his face.

"His eyes would get really wide and he'd go all still and watchful whenever he saw my mum and dad do normal stuff. Conjure plates for the table or find a lost shoe or fold the laundry." He laughed. "When we put the tent up at the Quidditch World Cup I thought his tongue was going to fall out."

"He's changed." Neville blurted it out. 

Ron's eyes meeting his were shadowed. "Yeah."

"I'm not talking about how he's learned magic, or how confident he is in front of a classroom teaching Defense." Neville shifted so he was facing his friend. "And I don't mean how quiet he's been this year. After what happened with Voldemort, how he captured and, and tortured Harry and killed Cedric right in front of him, I expected him to be different."

Ron was nodding. "Me, too. But –"

"But down there in the Entrance Hall." Neville pinched his lips closed and refused to speak the words out loud.

Ron seemed to be considering his own words for a long time. "Did you know my mum's mum was a bit like Trelawney?"

Neville shook his head.

"Not all the shawls and dangly bits, but mum always said she had 'The Eye.' Told us as soon as dad came over to the house for dinner the first time, her mum took one look at him and started talking about names for the children. All boy's names they were, too." Ron's voice grew soft and solemn. "I remember once she took me by the hand and led me into her room. All I wanted to do was go out and see what Fred and George had trapped in the garden, but she hurried me over to a chair and sat me down. She didn't have tea cups or crystal balls or those stupid poufs to sit on – just regular chairs and a deck of funny cards. But it wasn't Exploding Snap. The woman was dead serious. She told me stuff. About being prepared. About how I was going to need to make a choice and that my choice would change the world." He glanced up at Neville's face. "I can tell you I was bloody scared out of my trousers."

"'A choice?'" Something hot fluttered in Neville's chest. "That could mean anything, couldn't it? I mean, I'd be afraid to ask for bacon instead of sausage for breakfast if it were me."

"Yeah, mum finally broke down and asked me what was wrong one day when I couldn't decide whether to wear a blue shirt or a red one." A half-smile flickered across Ron's face. "She told me not to worry about it. That while her mum had always been right, there was some kind of inevitability to the future. And that I'd know – I'd recognize the choice – when the time came."

"You think –" Neville's palms were sweaty. He knew it. Something important was happening. Something about Harry. About Voldemort's death.

"Yeah," Ron sighed. "I reckon that choice is coming up fast. And it's gotta be about Harry."

"What about me?"

Neville had registered the squeak of the portrait moving aside to let someone in. It could only be one person at this hour. Only one Gryffindor was missing from the dorms. He and Ron both turned to face Harry. Harry Potter. Their friend. Their leader. The Boy Who Lived. The one Neville hardly recognized.

"You killed him, didn't you?" Ron said quietly. 

It wasn't really a question.

Neville could see the clench of Harry's jaw, the thunderstorm gathering behind his eyes. Harry was trying hard to hold back, to appear surprised or confused, but the same thing Neville had noticed down in the Entrance Hall when Harry was standing over Remus Lupin, his wand in his hand and a determined, knowing expression on his face was shining out, strong and steady. Knowledge. Power. A magical aura far deeper and broader than a fifteen-year-old could manage. A very different magical aura than the one he had three weeks ago.

Harry stayed silent.

"It's not like last year," Ron hurried to add. "I'm not mad – we're not mad." He jerked his chin towards Neville. "We don't think you left us out on purpose. And you obviously aren't after fame and glory, the way you're trying to hide it."

"But –" Neville twisted around, one arm hooked around the back of the sofa. "It's just – we can see, Harry. We recognize powerful magic. We grew up with it, you see. My Gran is a mighty witch, and my parents –" he swallowed a knotted ball of grief and loss, "- they were powerful, too. It was the only thing that kept them alive during the, the torture."

"People have underestimated the Weasleys for years," Ron added, his smile grim. "But do you really think Charlie could work with dragons, or that Bill could be a curse-breaker if the family didn't have power?"

"I know, Ron." Harry took a step closer. "I’m sorry if it's ever seemed like I didn't respect you or your family."

Ron waved off the apology, laughing under his breath. "Not you, mate. And, it's not as if I'm exactly the poster-child for power myself." Ron made an exaggerated confused face.

"Probably because, with the brothers you have, you've been trying to fly under the radar for years," Harry replied.

"Caught that, did you?"

"Yeah," Harry chuckled, "I caught that." He stepped up to the back of the couch and turned to Neville. "You two saw right through me, didn't you?"

"Are you surprised it was me, Harry?" Neville lifted his chin. "Not Hermione?"

"Neville, I have more respect for you than you can imagine. And, while Hermione is amazing, and has already figured out that something is wrong, I'm sure, she's going to try fix it first and understand it later."

Ron stifled a loud guffaw. "Got her pegged too."

Something in the set of Harry's shoulders changed, as if he'd shrugged off a heavy cloak. Neville shifted to one end of the sofa, gesturing for Harry to sit down. He looked so tired all of a sudden. Older. Spent. But relieved, too.

"Are you going to tell us?" Neville waited until Harry'd sat down before he asked.

"The whole story?" Harry shook his head. "How about I start with answering Ron's question."

Neville didn't really need an answer. Not now. "I'm pretty sure you already have."

Harry lowered his head into his hands. "You can't tell anyone. Please."

"Wouldn't do that to you, mate." Ron patted Harry on the knee. "Dumbledore knows, right? That's good enough for me."

"And Severus," Harry added.

"Snape?" Neville sat up like a shot.

"He was there."

"Of course, he was," Ron muttered. "Nasty git. Reporting for orders, was he?"

Harry lifted his head. "He was a spy, Ron. A spy for Dumbledore. He'd been risking his life for years to get inside information on Voldemort and the Death Eaters. If you only believe one thing I tell you tonight, please, believe that Severus Snape did everything he could do to protect me from Voldemort."

Neville stayed silent, chewing on his reaction. Snape. A spy. A hero. He'd heard it before, but, Harry's quiet insistence seemed to make it more real. The wizard still intimidated Neville – and probably always would. But, if Harry asked him to trust the man, well, Neville would try.

"Still a right greasy git."

"Ron."

"Well, he is!"

A bubble of laughter burst from Harry's mouth and caught Ron by surprise. A snort followed. And then all three of them were bent over double, trying to muffle their roars of glee. They didn't hear the soft, pattering footfalls approaching, but they couldn't help but hear the loud sigh of Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley.

"Boys," the girls said in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I love Neville Longbottom.


	27. One Man's Island*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shout out to a fantastic story in the Moment of Impact series by suitesamba. Go read it.

Saturday morning's dawn was grey and cold, not the bright December day the teachers and ministers had been hoping for. Wind bent the trees of the Forbidden Forest almost horizontal and the Whomping Willow seemed personally insulted, causing it to lash out at students, wildlife, and the occasional passing dead leaf. Angelina insisted that the Quidditch practices would still take place, eager to get the team back to the pitch after Umbridge had disbanded them earlier in the term. But Harry was sure that the stands would be empty – no one would want to sit out in the freezing damp when the Great Hall had been decked out in brilliant house colors and loaded down with food and games for all the families that were coming.

The four long house tables and the teacher's table had vanished, transformed into smaller squares and rectangles where families could eat breakfast with their children, turning the Great Hall into a riot of colors. Harry had been torn between shoving in to the Weasley's table, sharing the meal with Hermione and her parents, or sitting with the odd combination of Neville and his Gran and Luna and her father. He'd chosen the latter.

He clapped Ron on the shoulder, promising to see his family later, and, before he turned, Harry caught sight of brownish-blond hair and a pale face atop a set of dazzling green Quidditch robes. Draco. He watched the young man steer a determined course through the tables until he reached one set just for two. For Draco and Severus. Harry caught the Potions Master's eye and nodded solemnly.

During breakfast, Xenophilius kept them all entertained with his thoughts on the death of Voldemort – how the idea of a Horcrux came from an old sailor's tale about an evil wizard who had kept his heart in a charmed box hidden on a remote island and how a hero had to fight through many obstacles to destroy the heart before the wizard could be killed. Harry listened, happy to know the man when he was not under the stress of Voldemort's threats. Even then, with his precious daughter captured by evil, Xenophilius had done his best to help Harry and his friends. To give them the information they needed about the Deathly Hallows.

He and Ron hurried back to Gryffindor Tower after breakfast – Harry to get ready for Quidditch practice, and Ron to change his jumper into one without so much egg yolk dribbled down the front.

In the middle of pulling on his thickest pair of socks, Harry stopped, surprised. He was happy. Looking forward to soaring into the sky on his broom, being on a team striving towards a goal that didn't mean life or death, and the only thing that might happen if he failed was general grumbling about losing his touch, and fear of losing a meaningless House Cup at the end of the year. It felt – good. Simple. Fun.

Yesterday, after a busy day of classes, Harry and Ron and the twins had stolen out and hurried down to the pitch with their brooms. He'd been nervous – he hadn't been on a broom in years – and didn't want his first awkward flight to be witnessed by stands full of Quidditch fans. He'd watched the others soar off, laughing and taunting him for being the last, before he nervously kicked off from the ground. His young body had remembered exactly what it was doing.

And Harry remembered the joy – the freedom – of flight.

There was no room for fear – for regrets – when Harry was on his broom. The surge of power, the adrenaline rush, the way the ground fell away beneath him, details reduced to dots and smears of color – he laughed, he shouted. It was … magical.

He would have stayed out for hours, but the Weasley twins had no interest in earning detentions before the celebration on Saturday and Fred and George herded Harry back to the Great Hall only a few minutes late for dinner. Maybe Ron had been right when he'd remarked – between huge bites of mashed spuds – that flying was great for clearing out the cobwebs. Harry had been happy to spend the rest of the evening in the Gryffindor Common Room, talking, laughing, and ignoring his problems. Beating a gobsmacked Ron at chess was the icing on the cake.

He glanced across the dorm, watching Ron take careful pains with his clothes. His mum and dad were here, with Bill and Charlie and even Percy. Harry smiled. He remembered many meetings with the Weasley family, and how Molly would always find something to chide Ron about – his hair, a smudge on his shirt, trousers frayed at the hems. It wasn't mean spirited insults like the Dursleys would have slung towards Harry, but all the little ways a mum told her son that she loved him and cared about him.

"Go ahead, laugh," Ron tossed towards him. "Don't think you're not going to get the same treatment, later."

Harry's smile grew. Seeing Molly and Arthur again would be fantastic. He wouldn't even mind the familiar remarks about needing a haircut or keeping out of trouble. Before Ginny – his brain neatly slipped around the black hole of grief waiting for him there – the Weasleys had been Harry's family, and Ron's friendship half of the foundation Harry had built his life on. Downstairs, Hermione - the other half – was waiting, tapping her foot, he was sure, at Harry and Ron's late arrival. 

It wouldn't last – it couldn't last, but one day of reliving his childhood, of fitting himself back between Ron's acceptance and Hermione's support, had done Harry good. He'd stepped out of the swift tide of these changes and onto this island of childhood for a moment. To catch his breath. To find his footing. To remember why he'd negotiated with Death in the first place. Let his adult responsibilities wait, just a few more hours, he told himself, shoving his responsibilities, his 'inner truth,' to one side.

He slid into his Quidditch shoes – wriggling his toes at the tight pinch. He needed new clothes – an entire wardrobe of them. Another item to take care of later today when he and Severus traveled to Diagon Alley for their meeting with the goblins. He'd be damned if he let another of Dudley's elephant-sized hand-me-downs touch his skin. Gazing at the open door of his wardrobe, he flicked his wand towards the muddle of clothes crammed into the bottom, transfiguring the worst offenders into simple jeans and sweaters in his size. Better, he nodded to himself.

"Watch that, mate," Ron murmured, glancing around at Seamus and Dean who were arguing about whether or not Madam Hooch would allow someone to announce the practices like she did the actual Quidditch games. "With me or Neville, it's all right, but," he trailed off and jiggled his eyebrows a few times.

The conversation late Thursday night in the Common Room had gone better than Harry had imagined. He'd managed to restrain himself from telling his friends the entire truth, clenching his teeth so tight that he was sure he'd cracked a few. Revealing his age would make things awkward, would distance himself from the others in a way that Harry wasn't prepared to accept. Not yet. And telling them he was from the future, well, he could imagine the questions. About their lives. Their loves. Who lived, who died. Marriages. Children. Career choices. Did Dad survive his surgery? Does little Fred look like his uncle? It would be endless – and heartbreaking.

Once Hermione and Ginny had joined them, Harry had spent a few minutes getting his thoughts in order. Bent over his folded hands, Harry had considered the foursome. How much he missed them. How their characters had been ground down to sharp edges by the war. Much like Sirius had been damaged, each of his friends had suffered, their childhoods broken off far too early. He'd loved them all – in different ways – and never blamed them for the choices they made later in life. 

Hermione – so often the spokesperson for the others – had leaned forward, one hand touching Harry on the arm before retreating. "Let us help you," she'd offered.

He'd smiled. How many times had she said that? How many times had each of these people interrupted Harry's brooding to remind him that they were right there, eager to help?

"I can tell you a few things, but," he'd raised his eyes to each of them in turn, "the whole story," he shook his head," it's not all mine to tell."

He hadn't been lying. The complete tale belonged to all of them. To Harry and Ginny, married for five short years before her death. To Ron and Hermione, opposites attracting like magnets until they didn't. To Remus and Tonks, lying side by side in the Great Hall, reaching for each other in death. To Dumbledore, the mastermind of the Light, who dealt out information like it was the most precious jewels. To Severus, working in the dark, year after torturous year.

The final chapters of Harry's life belonged to him alone. To him, to those who helped him with his research, to Teddy Tonks and the portrait-memories of Severus. And to Death itself.

"I was taken from Hogwarts. Not like you think," Harry hurried to add before anyone could interrupt. "An older man, a wizard, came to me. He told me he knew things about Voldemort. About how he'd made himself nearly immortal. He told me that he wanted to help me destroy him."

"And you believed him?" Neville had been pale, anxious.

"Well, yes. He knew everything about me – about my life, about this." Harry had touched his scar. "Ever since the graveyard, since before that, really, I'd been hearing Voldemort's voice, seeing through his eyes. It had gotten a lot worse this year. This wizard explained that I was connected to Voldemort. That, back when he'd attacked me as a baby, when he'd killed my mother, a tiny portion of his soul had lodged inside me. It was called a Horcrux. And Voldemort had made seven of them."

The four had sat spellbound while Harry spun out the tale. He spoke about his older, time-traveling self as if he was a strange wizard who wanted to help Harry survive. Help him eliminate Voldemort once and for all. It was true, after all. He'd explained that it was this older wizard who had showed Harry how to become an Animagus to hide himself from Voldemort's searching mind. How he'd traveled for three weeks in that form at the wizard's side to find the Horcruxes. And how the wizard had tutored him in spells he'd never heard of – like Cumpleo Cruor – and had helped Harry expel the shred of Voldemort's soul residing within his scar.

"It changed me," Harry had explained. "I guess that's what you're seeing, Ron, Neville. My magical core had been bent – injured – by Voldemort's presence." Again, it was the truth. Harry's inability to trust, his secretive nature, his ability to speak Parseltongue, his deep depressions, and his fear of his own power had been potent forces during his development as a wizard. "Once he took me to the manor, I was ready. Ready to face him." He caught Ron's eye and smiled. "Guess what spell I used?"

"No," Ron had groaned, hands flying up to cover his face. "Don't tell me."

"Expelliarmus." Neville had spoken the simple word in hushed, reverent tones. 

Ginny had laughed.

Her eyes narrowed, Hermione had examined Harry closely across the short space between them. "You defeated Voldemort? Not this anonymous wizard? This powerful man who somehow knew all of Voldemort's best kept secrets?"

He had held her gaze. "It had to be me. It was always going to be me," Harry whispered. The truth seemed to shimmer in the air all around them, gold and glittering.

"Do you think it was Dumbledore?" Ginny had asked. "In disguise? Under a Glamor, or using Polyjuice?"

Harry had opened his mouth to deny it, but then he caught the flicker of belief spark in Hermione's eye. He snapped his mouth closed and settled for a shrug.

"Dumbledore was here, wasn't he? While Harry was missing?"

"Not the whole time," Neville had answered her. "The professors said he was conferring with the Ministry, sending out search parties."

The four had chewed over the story for an hour. Ron and Neville believed it had been a former Death Eater, someone as close to Voldemort as Malfoy or Snape, who had known all his secrets and was fed up with Voldemort's psychopathic rule. Ginny and Hermione just as clearly thought it had been Dumbledore who had led Harry through the necessary steps to finish the dark wizard once and for all. Harry had stayed silent, confirming neither theory. It was the best he could do considering Hogwarts' new wards.

"Did he ever explain?" Hermione had turned back when they'd all agreed they were too tired to think or talk anymore and were on their way up to their dormitories. "After Voldemort was killed. I mean." She took hold of Harry's elbow. "Did he say why? Why he was doing this?"

"I think, maybe, he believed his time was short. He was desperate to finish this, to end Voldemort's threat. I think –" Harry had stumbled over the words. "Down deep, he was sad. Grieving. He'd made a lot of mistakes, let people down. He had to do this one last thing before …" his words had trailed off.

Hermione had ducked her head in close, her voice quiet, sorrowful. "Before he could die?"

Harry shook his head, lips tightly closed. 

She'd straightened. "I'd have liked to have met him. To have thanked him. Honestly, Harry, with all these things we – you – didn't know, all those Horcruxes scattered across Britain, those spells." Hermione set her jaw. "I don't know if we'd have been much help. The DA. Ron and I. It would have taken us years to figure it all out."

"Yeah," Ron had mumbled, stretching, arms over his head, "good thing that bloke did what he did. I mean, who would ever have thought that ole Moldy-Nose would have broken his soul up into pieces and hidden it? It's balmy, that is!"

"Do you think he'll be back," Ginny's eyes were clear, but her forehead crinkled in thought. "The wizard, I mean."

Harry had struggled for a moment, looking into those eyes. "I think he's gone for good, but," he'd opened his hand and spread it on his chest, "he'll always be here. He taught me amazing things and told me stories. About Tom Riddle. About Dumbledore. Even about Lucius Malfoy." Harry lowered his gaze. "I've told Sev – Professor Snape a lot of this. It's –" he swallowed, not needing to fake his unease at the knowledge, "it explains a lot."

"About Draco, you mean?" Ginny had asked.

"Among other people."

"It's got to be quite a load, Harry." Neville laid a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Knowing the truth and not being able to share it."

Neville had no idea. But Harry looked at the people who had circled around him. And he'd remembered six friends flying through the night on invisible creatures at Harry's simple request. So many more taking on his shape to fool the Death Eaters when Harry escaped Privet Drive. Being wounded, full of fear, crying out in pain – dying – because they were the best friends anyone could imagine.

"I have shared it, Neville," Harry assured him. "I've shared it with all of you. And, you know what?" He smiled and caught at Hermione's hand, startling her. "I'd rather tell you guys than have a bunch of ministry flunkies and reporters follow me around asking questions for weeks." He caught their gazes, making sure they were listening, that they could all see and hear the gratitude and love in his words, his eyes. "I believe in you. In us. We could have figured it out – eventually. But, I'm just as glad that you – that we didn't have to."

It wouldn't end there, Harry figured, standing and reaching for his broom. He was sure of it. But he'd seen the determination on Ron's face. His friend had decided to trust Harry, to keep his secrets like he had so many times before. Neville and Ginny right beside him. Hermione would puzzle out the problem for weeks – and would come back to Harry with a load of questions. But, in the end, she'd have to settle for his explanation. Especially if Harry was successful this afternoon in getting Severus' help to set up the next portion of his life. A life outside of Hogwarts.

Now, though, he smiled to himself, hurrying down the steps of their dorm, it was time to fly.


	28. An Accidental Revelation

Out of breath, his goggles hanging around his neck, Harry swept through the Quidditch tent's flapping canvas entrance, intent only on a shower and clean clothes. The Weasleys had gathered him up after the practice match for a 'family' celebration – he could still feel the warmth from Molly's last hug, her love etched deep in the eyes that had sought his, to make sure Harry understood that nothing had changed. Harry was still Harry, still theirs. In peace and joy as well as in fear and struggle.

A swirl of green registered out of the corner of his eye and Harry managed to lurch to the right before he mowed down another student in his haste. The Slytherin and Ravenclaw teams were already circling the pitch on their brooms – this must be a late Slytherin hurrying out to join them.

"Oh, sorry," he muttered, throwing a quick smile in the blurry figure's direction to excuse his rush. He probably shouldn't have stayed for that second piece of cake but having a picnic with the reunited Weasley family – seeing Percy sitting on the grass, bumping shoulders with Fred and stuffing his face full of treacle tart - wasn't something Harry could refuse.

"'Sorry'. That's certainly a first."

Harry stopped, breathless, his heart thumping. A tempest of emotions stormed through him, mind and body, images rising from behind his cracked inner barriers. Draco, in the grey robes of an Azkaban convict, head shaved, emaciated and bruised. The thin, weeping boy in Myrtle's girls' room, desperation fueling his sudden rage. His grey eyes dim, weariness pulling him down while he lied to Bellatrix Lestrange herself about Harry's identity. Harry standing in the witness box, trying to shout over the din at Draco's trial, trying to get the snarling judges to listen to him, meeting Draco's eyes for the last time.

The figure in front of him, vague in outline but vivid in his memories, broke the warmth of Molly's hug and the friendship of the Common Room. The thin layer of contentment and peace that had muffled all of Harry's concerns for the past day tore to pieces like tissue paper and were hurled in all directions. Harry's fifteen-year-old self, still full of the ecstasy of flight and the happiness of the Weasley family was gone in an instant, consumed by the grown wizard roaring back to life inside. 

What had he been playing at? While the world turned and men and women suffered, Harry had ignored his duties and all of his promises to himself. He'd wasted precious time, time while he could still access his adult memories, playing chess and Quidditch and acting like a child.

"Draco." Hands shaking, Harry shoved his damp fringe out of his eyes and cast a silent Accio to start his glasses flying towards him from his locker shelf. He switched his broom and to his left hand and held out his right, placing his glasses on his nose when they arrived a moment later. The other boy came into focus – his Quidditch robes neat and clean, in direct contrast to the storm brewing behind his grey eyes and the blond-brown streaks that seemed to be clawing his hair out of place.

"That's better. Now that you can see who it is you nearly ran down, I'm sure that 'sorry' is the last word you'd sling towards me, Potter."

The sharp bite of Draco's words was familiar, but they lacked the underlying arrogance that Harry remembered. This was not the same boy who had joined Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad with such relish. Who would, in a few short months, be bound to Voldemort by his father's oaths and his own desperate promises. Who would agree to kill Dumbledore, to seal his soul to darkness, to protect his mother and to prove himself to his father. With all of Abraxas Malfoy's dark curses and rituals undone, this Draco was, for the first time, his own man. A man that Harry Potter had never met.

Images swirled, a small blond boy being fitted for robes, an upturned chin, grey eyes cold and calculating on the Hogwarts Express. Cruel laughter. _"You'll be next, Mudbloods."_

Harry shrugged off his younger self's resentful memories. Strengthened by his recent return to Gryffindor Tower, and the warm welcome he found among his friends, those old resentments clung. Childish grudges. Insecurities turned to anger. Gryffindor protectiveness that had erupted in Harry's heart when his friends had been insulted or threatened.

His older self understood, understood the draw of that younger, simpler life. The instantaneous hatred of a child threatened by a bully. Hagrid – Harry's first real friend who had rescued him from the Dursleys that stormy July night - had warned him that all Slytherins were evil. Severus and Malfoy had done nothing to change his mind. 

Confronted with this new Draco, his pinched and grieving face, all of the props of his former life – friends, status, wealth, his mother's love and his father's grudging approval – swept away, those childish quarrels could not survive. Harry couldn't pretend innocence in their rivalry, or wrap himself in the excuses of childhood squabbles and insecurity. In the surge of Harry's adult memories, the revelations of the Malfoy family's abuses, and the horrors Draco had been subjected to, he opened his eyes to the boy before him. The child. Harry was a grown man facing a child. It was best he remembered that.

How had the poet said it? It was time to put away childish things. 

"I am sorry, Draco," Harry repeated.

"Sorry? For me?" 

Draco shifted his feet, obviously torn between stepping in to confront Harry or hurrying away. It looked to Harry as if Draco regretted that he hadn't brushed past him, ignoring Harry and sidestepping this awkward conversation.

"Not the way you mean," Harry explained. He didn't pity Draco, not as others defined pity. There were plenty of wizards and witches – and others - caught up in Voldemort's wars who deserved pity – innocents targeted, a street full of muggles destroyed, the Longbottoms reduced to quaking shells. Some looked on Harry's life with pitiful glances – the loss his family, the abuse of the Dursleys, constant attacks from Voldemort. But, those trials, he reminded himself, had made Harry the wizard he'd become. Hopefully, with time and healing – and help – Draco could overcome, could _become_ , the wizard and the man he was meant to be.

Draco hadn't earned the horrors of his past – or the uncertainty of his future. 

Crossing his arms, the shining ebony broom forgotten where it rested against the tent wall, Draco jerked his chin up. "Well then maybe you'd better explain exactly what you do mean."

Choosing his words and tone with precision, Harry let his arms hang at his sides, open and nonthreatening. "I'm sorry that you've lost your father, Draco. Lucius was many things and stood for much of the arrogant condescension of pureblood families, but he was never a simple villain. And his past, well, I think people will find that he suffered nearly as much as those he targeted. I'm sorry that you're stuck now, between mourning the father you knew and hating the wizard who wasn't strong enough to protect you from the same abuse that he suffered at Abraxas' hand."

Draco's pale skin turned paper-white, his eyes widening to reveal the reddened edges. "What do you think you could possibly know about it, Potter? What, have the Ministers for Magic sent out owls, blabbing my family's secrets to the entire wizarding world?" His face screwed up, his eyes becoming tiny frozen pools, glaring icicles towards Harry. "Or is it only the Great Harry Potter who got the whole story? Having tea with Fudge, were you? Or another private meeting in Dumbledore's office where he fills in The Boy Who Lived on information that is none of his business, as usual?"

Harry drew in a sharp breath. This was a mistake. A grave error. Lulled to complacency by his urge to help this boy, to show Draco that Harry held no grudges, Harry had forgotten that no one could know who had provided Severus with the information about the Malfoy family. _Fool,_ he snapped to himself.

"Well?" Fine tremors shivered along Draco's arms and legs, until the boy shook from head to toe. Anger, fear, embarrassment – they were all tangled together within Draco's stormy gaze. Still, he stepped closer to Harry, furious, threatening. "Tell me, you bastard. Who told you?"

Harry shook his head. "Draco – I –" The story he had spun for his friends wouldn't work for Draco. The boy would never listen. Not now, now that Harry had struck this particular nerve. Draco's fear of humiliation, his loss of the last thing he could use to cover his wounds – his pride – would never allow it.

Perhaps Obliviate was the kinder choice. Harry kept his hands at his sides, unwilling to trigger a reactionary attack from Draco if he grabbed at his wand. He could perform the spell without his wand, but it would lack the precision he needed. Legilimency would help him control Draco's reactions. He peered into the boy's eyes, seeking a vulnerable spot to exploit –

_No!_

Harry ripped his gaze away, stumbling backward, his head suddenly too light to stay attached to his body. No. He would not. He could not. He could not be the next wizard to take advantage of Draco. To penetrate his privacy and meddle with the boy's mind. Draco had lost enough. Harry wouldn't add salt to the boy's open wounds by lying to him or forcing Draco to lie to himself. 

Harry's thoughts raced, tying his tongue. How could he imagine doing such a thing?

"Perhaps we should put off this discussion for another time." 

Severus spoke from the tent's shadowy interior, startling Harry into reaching for his wand. The twitch of the wizard's eyebrow stilled him.

Severus moved slowly into the light. "Right now, Draco, your team is awaiting you."

"Did you tell him?" Draco swept around to face his Head of House. "Did you –"

Severus cocked his head, looking down on Draco with a frustrated expression. His tone, however, was even, measured - calm. "I would never betray your secrets, Draco. You know that."

"Then make him explain," Draco hissed between his teeth, flinging one hand towards Harry.

Severus locked eyes with the boy, unspoken promises flying between them. He then raised his gaze to Harry's, one eyebrow lifted in a clear question.

_No._ A part of Harry shouted from within, denying Severus' silent demand. No. Severus could not be asking this. Not now. Not so soon. If Harry couldn't tell his best friends, he certainly was not going to share his story with –

Harry closed his eyes, teeth clenched at the phrase that had popped into his mind. _His bitterest enemy._ He groped behind him for a bench and then dropped onto it, head hanging, heart thumping.

"You don't know what you are asking," he finally managed. 

"Draco, if you intend to prove to your house and to all of Hogwarts that you are here to stay, and that things will be returning to normal, you must go to the Quidditch pitch. Now."

"I want to hear his answer." 

Stubborn. Angry. Wounded. Harry didn't need to raise his head to recognize the tone or imagine the scowl on Draco's face. 

"And you will. _I_ have promised." 

The mistake Draco would be making to doubt his professor was plain as glass in Severus' tone.

"When?"

"Mister Potter and I have a task before us this day – as have you." Severus' robes rustled as he moved closer to the other boy. "Go on," Severus urged, an undercurrent of compassion warming his words, "fly with your teammates. Let everyone see that Draco Malfoy will not hide – not now, not ever."

"I will speak to you later, Potter."

At the swish of robes, Harry knew Draco was gone.

"Just what do you think you are doing, Potter? Revealing your knowledge about his family? Did you think to hurt the boy? To taunt him, now, at his weakest moment?" Severus scoffed. "You have not changed at all, have you?"

Harry clenched his fists in his lap but then sagged, accepting the other wizard's insults. "Nothing so strategic, I assure you." He raised his head, meeting Severus' eyes with no shields raised to guard his thoughts – his regrets. "I truly couldn't look at Draco and not say … something."

He felt Severus' light touch on his thoughts like a brush of wings.

"Your mind," Severus began, frowning.

"It's –" Harry's stomach knotted. "At one time I believed my Occlumency shields were some of the strongest among wizards. My internal wards unbreachable. Now?" Harry blew out a breath. "I don't know if it's Dumbledore's wards, time travel, or –"

"I had not realized." Severus crossed his arms, looking down his angular nose. "Your shields were indeed formidable when I first attempted to intrude into your mind after Voldemort's death."

"And yet, they will not settle. My thoughts and memories are darting around in there like a school of grindylows in the Black Lake." Harry gestured towards his scar. "Before you ask, no, I don't remember experiencing anything like this when Voldemort died in my original timeline."

"You were still a child, then. Barely of legal age. And, at your own admission, the world around you was struggling. Considering the trials you've described, your acceptance of your own death, I wonder if you would have noticed."

Harry shrugged. "I have no idea. But, I do know one thing." He rose and raised his arms as if to display his Quidditch robes. "Pretending to be my fifteen-year-old self, even for a few days, did not help. I won't make that mistake again." He dropped his arms. "This trip to Gringotts is a start."

Severus tilted his head, regarding Harry from half-closed eyes. "To allow a bare day and a half to acclimate yourself once again to this world, to your young age, does not seem so great an indulgence." His sigh was more a snort. "I said as much to Draco when he was determined to return to Slytherin House."

"This is a change I cannot put off. I'm sure Draco felt the same," Harry snapped. "If being comfortable among my friends is going to further erode my mental barriers, I won't have it." Harry looked at the tent flap, as if he could see through it to the Weasleys gathered out there, the students flying and cheering. "These children – they don't deserve the burden of my memories, Severus. I'll do whatever it takes to protect them from knowledge that will do more harm than good. Finding a new home, setting myself up to live there, to continue my studies, is essential." 

"And Draco? Do you intend me to break my promise to him?"

"No." Harry straightened. "First of all, I would not ask that of you. I'd have stopped you from promising at all if I intended to refuse you. Secondly, now that I've truly let the hippogriff out of the pen concerning Lucius, it's too late. We both know that Draco can keep secrets – his own, his father's – he'll keep mine, too."

Head slowly turning back and forth, Severus seemed bemused. "You are so certain of that."

"If not," Harry replied, "I'll survive." If Draco intended to betray Harry to the wizarding world, Harry would need a solid foundation from which to face the future. One he couldn't obtain without the wizard in front of him. And the sooner the better. "If you will help me."

Severus nodded. "For your compassion towards Draco if nothing else, I will."


	29. Goblin Oaths

Severus followed the goblin into a side room off of the Gringotts' lobby, Potter on his heels. After their – individual and private – visits to their vaults, Senior Manager Gnashrend had escorted the wizards to a meeting room where he had arranged a visit with bank accountants. An estate agent had been summoned – one who was eager to find homes for two distinguished wizards – and would be arriving shortly.

"Professor Snape." The goblin accountant wore sleeve covers as well as a green-tinged eyeshade. "Your last vault accounting was performed, as per schedule, on July 1st. Is there a problem?"

"Not at all," Severus answered, hands folded. "I am pleased with the efficiency and professionalism of Gringotts and have never found a single knut out of place in your accounting."

"As it should be," Gnashrend snapped in reply, glaring. "As for you, Mister Potter -"

"I recently received a current accounting of my vault from Headmaster Dumbledore." The boy bowed – a practiced and graceful movement, Severus noticed, not the bow of an untrained youth. "Gringotts has my thanks for administering the Potter trust so faithfully and precisely for all these years."

Beneath the simple statement, Severus heard the double meaning in Potter's words. Since the two had left Hogwarts earlier today, Potter had settled firmly into his adult persona, the confusion and emotionalism of this morning falling away. Severus had noted the easing in his own mind and a certain calming of his spirit once they'd removed themselves from Hogwarts' wards. He intended – and was sure that Potter would agree – that, before their return, they find a private place wherein they could work to thicken and strengthen their Occlumency shields. Perhaps, the spell work done away from the wards' interference, Severus would retrieve the kind of internal mastery he was accustomed to. As for Potter, if his current effortless dealings with the goblins were any hint, his own control was more than adequate.

The adult Potter had, of course, been dealing with the goblins of Gringotts for decades. Perhaps he'd even met this particular goblin before. No matter, the boy seemed to know how to approach the creatures, including the extreme care that was necessary in order to keep from voicing any oaths or ill-advised agreements in their presence. 

Earlier today, Severus had parted with Potter in Diagon Alley, allowing the boy to purchase new clothing, books, and supplies in private while Severus enjoyed his own independent travels to shops he frequented for potions ingredients. When they'd rendezvoused at the bank entrance, Severus had been taken aback by the boy's new wardrobe – severely cut business robes and cloak in a burgundy so dark it looked black – as well as neatly trimmed hair. Striding beside Potter, Severus had found himself standing taller, as if accompanying a colleague rather than escorting a child. It had been Potter's aura – his attitude – even more than the new clothes, polished boots, and stern gaze. Severus knew the goblins had observed the distinction between Potter's age and his magical aura.

Small eyes narrowed down to pinpricks in Gnashrend's angular face. "Hm. Very good," the goblin replied, taking a long look at the presumably underage wizard before speaking. "Gringotts has administered the Potter Trust since James and Lily Potter's demise and has made a yearly accounting available to the vaults' regent," Gnashrend paused, "or owner."

Severus turned to Potter, intending to warn the boy, to alert him to the insights available to an older, experienced goblin like Gnashrend. Potter's magical aura might as well be hung with flashing lights and alarm hoots, declaring that something was not right to the goblin's eyes.

No warning seemed to be necessary. "The Potter family is grateful," Potter stated, his eyes hooded, wary.

"Yes, well," Gnashrend rubbed its hands together. "You have reviewed the trust documents, I presume?"

"The headmaster forwarded them to me the night of my … return." Potter nodded sharply. "They seem in order. However, recent events have caused me, and Professor Snape, to discuss necessary changes."

Severus frowned. He'd suggested that Potter have an accounting made of both the small vault that, per the trust, was his to use for expenses and allowance while he remained a minor, and the greater Potter holdings that would come to him when he turned seventeen. As for reviewing the trust documents that detailed Dumbledore's responsibilities as regent as well as the goblins' system of checks and balances that provided security for the minor child's inheritance, Severus was unaware of any changes Potter intended.

"Perhaps we should speak more privately," Severus murmured, eyebrows raised at the accountant goblin which still sat hunched over its ledgers.

"Indeed." Gnashrend waved away the accountant which scurried out of the room. The door closed and locked behind it, fine red wards glowing momentarily along each edge before they shot out to encompass the entire room.

"Headmaster Dumbledore has owled us the proper forms and declarations." Gnashrend lurched to the end of the table, standing behind a tall stack of documents. "You have his permission to access any necessary funds, Mister Potter, to obtain a residence. We shall forward any paperwork to him for his signature as regent. But," the goblin turned to face the boy, its lip curling upwards in a snarl, "changing the provisions of the trust will not be possible until you are deemed 'of-age' by Gringotts' standards."

Potter nodded. "You can perform the tests now? And keep both the results and the fact that the test has been performed at all under the Gringotts' wards for secrecy? Pledged by your personal oath, Gnashrend?"

"My personal oath?" The snarl grew more dangerous, crooked teeth exposed as the senior goblin sneered. "Goblins do not –"

"Goblins have, past and future, taken oaths to safeguard the privacy of their depositors. This practice is what has given Gringotts its reputation for safety within the international banking community. You will take these oaths, or the entirety of the Potter estate and trust will be removed from Gringotts and transferred to Knurrend Festung." Potter remained stoic during the exchange. Calm. Utterly professional. Underlying his words was a distinct expectation of obedience – and, Severus realized with some irritation – cooperation.

Lips pursed at the boy's impertinence, Severus considered refusing for a moment. Potter had not discussed this situation with him in advance. He had, however, obtained Severus' promise to help him, and, fool that he was, Severus had not set down the precise limitations of that promise. 

"The Prince estates would follow Potter's, as would the Black's, once the news was released that a Gringott's senior goblin refused to take appropriate precautions," he stated. Crossing his arms, Severus looked down his nose at the scowling goblin. "Perhaps you should prepare the paperwork for the transfers. Or," he swept his wand from his pocket, "should I contact Knurrend Festung for their assistance?"

"There's no need for that." Scowl and snarl erased, the goblin eyed Potter, a smile warming its grey-tinted face. "Well played, Mister Potter. I am at your service. Now, let me just –" Gnashrend scraped his fingernails across a length of cabinet and muttered a few words, revealing a shelf that extended out towards him. Atop a padded cloth embroidered with the Gringott's crest sat a small silver bowl, a pointed dagger, and what appeared to be a ring box, emblazoned with the Potter family crest.

From beside him, Severus heard the boy chuckle.

"Already prepared. I don't know why I'm surprised," Potter drawled. He took a step closer. "Is that –"

Gnashrend tapped the ring box with one talon. "It is. It has resided within our vaults since James Potter's father's death. It is not the only verified Potter legacy item stored here, but it is the most profoundly linked to the Potter line." Gnashrend nodded at Potter. "If this item verifies the legality of your claim to all of your inheritance, there can be no question or contest."

The goblin turned his gaze towards Severus. "Would Professor Snape act as oath taker?"

He nodded. Wand extended, Severus ran through the required spell wording and gestures before placing himself at one point of the triangle made by the three persons, the shelf in the middle. The goblin held both hands over the items, speaking in the harsh, guttural tongue of its people to charm a circle encompassing the wizards, himself, and everything on the shelf within a powerful magical field. He took up the dagger, testing the point carefully before nodding towards Potter.

The boy frowned, thinking. He nodded, as if resigning himself, and touched the third finger of his left hand.

Severus' eyes widened. He'd forgotten – or, perhaps the correct wording would be that he had been made to forget – that Potter already wore a ring on that hand. The gold ring that he claimed to have belonged to the Gaunt family, that now held the Resurrection Stone. Beside him, Gnashrend drew in a breath, the deep magic of the stone blazing white within the magical field he'd conjured. 

Potter removed the ring and flipped open the ring box that sat on the shelf, revealing a gleaming gold and silver band decorated with an oval jewel the color of blood. The Potter crest gleamed in fine filigree within the stone. He exchanged the Gaunt ring with his family crest and slid it onto his finger. The ring box closed over the Resurrection stone with a loud snap and laid quivered on the cloth, as if struggling to hold onto the magic inside.

Right hand on the ring box, Potter spoke. "I, Harry James Potter, last heir to the Potter and Peverell lines, do claim this ring forevermore. It shall reside here, at Gringotts' Bank, in the keeping of Gnashrend, Senior Manager, protected and warded from all hands but mine. Should any being – goblin, human, creature, elf, witch or wizard, living or dead or caught between seek to touch what lies within this box, the curses of Hexcharon itself shall fall upon that being."

Severus swallowed. A harsh penalty, but appropriate to ward such a powerful item. Hexcharon, an ancient part-goblin/part-human wizard, had laid a hundred curses on his home in Atlantis when its leaders had imprisoned and sought to execute him. Upon his death, the land itself had ripped apart, releasing fountains of burning stone that had killed all within and submerged the city and its inhabitants beneath the sea. He gathered Potter's words up and moved his wand, writing them on the air in the center of the circle. 

Gnashrend's mouth widened in a rictus grin. "I, Gnashrend, Senior Manager, do affirm and agree to protect and preserve the box and what lies within it, swearing on my magic, my name, and my clan. No word of its presence within Gringott's vaults shall be spoken, written, or imagined, or the curses of Hexcharon shall fall upon me and my clan, forevermore. This I so pledge."

The goblin nicked its right thumb with the dagger and held it to the glowing words of Potter's curse. Immediately, Gnashrend's name and clan designation appeared at the bottom of the page of writing. 

"I, Severus Tobias Prince Snape, by my magic and honor, do seal and assure these oaths. Fidelius Nonjora, Ipsecum Signum, Promissum Aeternitas." He encircled the words of the oath and Gnashrend's signature three times and then drew an 'x' through the glowing spell, releasing it to embed its magic into all three men and the box that quieted beneath Potter's hand.

"And now, Mister Potter." Gnashrend wiped the tip of the dagger with a white cloth he'd taken from his pocket. "If you would."

Potter held his right hand, palm up, over the silver bowl. He glanced up at Severus.

Severus raised his left hand and his wand and drew the necessary diagram in the air to secure the space, the words they would speak, the sounds heard, and the magic that would be released during the ritual. At the last moment, he added a cleansing spell to be triggered when the ritual was completed that would destroy every speck of blood spilled. He did not miss the goblin's momentary grimace of annoyance when he recognized the magic.

No, Severus murmured to himself, Potter's blood would not remain within the goblin's keeping. 

Gnashrend, his jab powered by his irritation, dug the tip of the dagger into Potter's palm digging an unnecessary trench. Potter, lips thin, cupped his hand to catch most of the blood.

"Well, that should be enough," the boy remarked coldly. He moved his left hand so that the ring on his finger was directly over the bowl and poured the blood from his right hand to cover the jewel. 

Severus and Gnashrend bent over the ring. The response should be unequivocal. Either the Potter seal would accept Harry as its rightful, adult owner, sending out a pure tone to echo within the warded space – and each of their spirits – or it would remain silent. Silence would not necessarily refute Potter's legacy but might be a sign that the boy had not reached his maturity.

A low vibration – half sound, half sensation – began within Severus' chest, his very bones sending out an echo. The tone rose higher and louder until each item on the padded shelf trembled and then shook and then bounced against each other.

As the sound grew, Severus lifted his eyes to Potter's face. Haloed with a red-gold aura, every trace of the fifteen-year-old was gone, replaced by a mature adult, fine creases at the corners of his eyes. Tall and stately, Potter held himself with an attitude of gravitas and quiet confidence. Back straight, eyes clear, he met Severus' assessing gaze with calm acceptance before turning to the goblin.

"I, Harry James Potter, claim my rightful inheritance and independence as the adult heir of the Potter, Peverell, and Evans' lines."

Gnashrend grunted. "Accepted."

Severus held the magical field together for another moment before jerking his hands away. In a flash, every drop of blood vanished, along with the tip of the dagger, the entire silver bowl, the white cloth, and the embroidered fabric lining the shelf.

Beside him, Potter, looking fifteen again, laughed, turning his unstained, healed hands over and over. "That should take care of that."


	30. Divining Home

After the ritual that confirmed Harry as an adult wizard, the meeting with the wizard agents went smoothly. The smartly-dressed middle-aged wizard had brought along a younger partner, hoping to impress 'young' Harry Potter with his agency's understanding of what kind of home the younger generation might be looking for. The two worked – and spoke – in an odd back and forth that Harry enjoyed observing, smiling at the way the two finished each other's sentences. Grey haired, stern, the older wizard carried an air of discipline and confidence; the younger man, his sandy hair long and a bit disheveled, couldn't contain his enthusiasm and friendliness. Onnield and Ballard, they had introduced themselves.

Between them, Severus and Harry worked nearly as easily. The two had similar needs, after all. Neither required a large home, built for raising children and grandchildren. Both longed for privacy, enough space for a garden grown for their particular brewing requirements, and, of course, rooms that could be warded and equipped for their experimentation.

"What about bedrooms? Entertaining?" the older wizard asked, shuffling through glowing images of homes that his partner had conjured into sight to hang between them. Homes disappeared with each statement and a flick of his wand.

"Two or three," Severus replied, considering. "And none," he added sharply.

"The same," Harry agreed. "Modern plumbing and electricity, please. I do not want to live in some Victorian mausoleum."

That led to choked laughter from, surprisingly, Onnield, the older man. "No? You don't appreciate the atmosphere of, say, a front garden choked with weeds, creaking stairs, and ancient, dusty draperies?" He shook his head, dark eyes gleaming. "Tsk, tsk, where shall the next generation get their stereotypes?"

"Possibly in self-cleaning washrooms, automatic re-filling pantries, and proximity to coffee houses. All of which," Severus added, "I would not decline if my own home were so supplied."

That seemed to spark an idea in the younger wizard's mind. "Agent Onnield, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

The older tapped a long finger against his chin. "I believe I am, Agent Ballard. Gentlemen."

He disappeared the remaining images and opened his leather satchel, hauling out a sheaf of paperwork. Spreading it across the table, he flicked his wand and a single image appeared hovering in the air above it. 

"This property has just come into our hands. It had belonged to a very ancient family, husband and wife, who both required separate and well-organized chambers for brewing and experimentation. Thankfully, the family had the home updated and remodeled every decade or so."

The house was Victorian in style, but, instead of dark colors and dreary, peeling paint, it was light, with modern roofing and gutters, its varying levels and added-on sections seeming to coalesce into a quirky whole. As the image turned, Harry noted the three-story Russian-looking turret on one side, the covered porch encompassing half of the front and side, and the solarium extending from the back out into a large garden, complete with an impressive out-building.

"Location?" Severus asked.

"Devon. Between North Molton and Exeter." Agent Onnield moved his hands away from the image, causing the view to widen so that Harry could see the surrounding countryside.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, leaning closer. The home wasn't completely isolated – there were other large homes within the area, the closest perhaps ten miles away. A narrow, meandering road led to the home's tall, impressive gates. Instead of stark black iron or heavy brick, the gates gleamed in the sunlight, golden and bronze, set within distinctive stone walls that must have been cut in the Cotswolds.

Onnield touched a portion of the image with the tip of his wand and Harry found himself walking up the front steps, Severus at his side. They wandered through large, airy rooms, the home obviously re-structured since it's Victorian birth into a more modern, relaxed atmosphere. Parlor, dining room, kitchen – wired for electricity, Harry was happy to see. The pantry was large and charmed with a restocking spell, the coldbox and refrigerator as well. Five bedrooms, including two entirely separated Master Suites on opposite sides of the home, each suite surrounding by its own office, a small lab, and a room lined with shelves and cabinets of all sizes.

"The couple had spent quite a long time together," Agent Ballard remarked, his voice seeming to come from the walls around them. "They came together from time to time to share a meal or music, but spent quite a lot of time apart, as well. It, apparently, saved their marriage more times than they could count."

"The laboratory is much too small," Severus remarked, arms folded as he peered down his nose at the bare room they had paused in.

"These are just the small labs, upstairs. The full laboratories are found in the basement – for safety and privacy purposes." Onnield advised.

The basement was as impressive as Onnield had claimed. Two complete and separate labs, the walls built with charms and spells that kept all magic safely within their perimeter. Harry liked the set-up, the obvious precautions taken as well as the modern features such as taps for water and natural gas, and the alchemical pipes meant to produce steam, ice, acid, or flame, depending on the settings. Onnield's voice followed Harry, explaining different devices and connections, pointing out the store rooms and exits that led to the gardens and the tunnel that would allow him to reach the outbuilding.

Severus was prowling along the other side of the room, nosing into every corner, Ballard's eager voice anticipating the Potions Master's questions. The other lab had been more to his liking – a brewing master had a hand in the set-up, Harry was sure. Various cabinets had lined the walls, each warded and spelled to keep the items inside fresh and untainted. Several tall benches were arranged to hold beakers and cauldrons, with the appropriate ventilation above, carrying fumes and odors into a magical baffling system in the ceiling. 

When the two came together again, the agents urged them to return to the main level and led them to double doors that opened into what must be the turret Harry had noticed.

"If this doesn't convince you," Ballard chuckled warmly, "this is not the home for you."

Inside, the turret rose three stories, each circular wall lined with bookshelves. Strangely, the upper third of the shelves were still filled with books.

"Why on earth –" Severus muttered, behind Harry.

"The owners left these books – books written by the two of them – to the home's new owners." Onnield's voice echoed from the exposed wood. "With one caveat. A caveat for the entire purchase, actually."

Frowning, Harry turned in a complete circle, eying the gleaming spines, the bronze ladders set into circular tracks, the Middle-eastern rugs layered on the floor, and the two leather armchairs set opposite one another, an odd triangular table beside each. The place seemed familiar – as if he'd seen it all before, but – he shook his head – not from this angle.

"And what is that caveat?" Severus asked.

It was Ballard who answered. "The home must accept the mastery of the new occupants."

Harry spun. "'Occupants?'"

"Indeed. The former owners wished their home to be shared by two like-minded individuals. Men, women, a couple, friends, family, business partners, it doesn't matter. As long as the two wizards or witches are bonded in some way, the requirement will be met. But the home will make the final decision whether or not to accept any offers."

While Ballard spoke, Harry paced the circular room, trying to pinpoint the elusive feeling of déjà vu. He peered through the tall, narrow windows, the outside light warming the worn rugs beneath his feet. He touched the golden brads on the blood-red leather chair, and slid his hand along the fireplace mantel, gazing up at the portrait that hung above it.

"I'll be a merman's monkey," he murmured as he took in the man's features. The portrait had been painted in this room – the man sitting in one of the leather chairs, a book open on his lap, one of the bronze ladders leading up to the library's dizzying heights gleaming behind him.

"Potter?" Snape came to stand at his elbow.

Harry gestured. "I knew I'd seen this room before. But the portrait is hung at Hogwarts, not here." He leaned closer, addressing the motionless figure sitting in the chair, his silver-grey hair swept back from a high forehead. "Sir?"

"Potter - what are you talking about?"

Harry turned, a half-smile on his face. "His wife's name is Perenelle, I remember now! It's Nicholas Flamel. The inventor of the Philosopher's Stone. This was his house – his and his wife's."

Severus stared back at the portrait. "Of course. After the stone was destroyed, he and his wife had enough time to put their affairs in order. Including this house."

"It was rumored," Harry caught Severus' calculating eye, "that they were living in Devon, wasn't it?"

"I had heard as much." Severus tipped his head in a short bow. "I have never seen this portrait at Hogwarts. Where did you come across it?"

"In the hallway behind the hospital wing." Harry smiled. "But their words were very cryptic. Something about becoming 'unglued from linear experience.'"

"I have heard that phrase before." Severus pursed his lips, distinctly unamused. "Those who meddle with universal constants such as eternal life – or time travel – tend to have an interesting afterlife."

"Really?" Harry felt something – a connection. An opening of possibilities within his mind. The Flamels had urged him to connect with Severus, to finish his work. Had they actually prepared a place for him to do it? And would Severus agree?

"Have you seen enough?" The wizard agents' voices both asked the question.

"Yes." Harry held up one hand as Severus lifted his wand to remove them from the house's image. "We have some things to talk about, Severus."

"Oh, indeed," the other wizard answered. "Privately."

Harry nodded and let Severus lead them back to Gringott's.

\-- -- -- --

Harry stood at the window, staring down at the few brave folks scurrying along Diagon Alley, cloaks buttoned up and collars held tightly against the wind. Sunset came early in December, the British weather uncaring as to celebrations or necessities. A gust swirled past, hurrying an older witch on her way, one hand clutching her hat.

Yes, that's exactly how Harry felt, he thought. Since he'd returned from the future, Harry had been pushed along, hurried to find the horcruxes, to deal with Voldemort, with Dumbledore, with the Malfoy family, and, now Hogwarts itself. It had been a joy to celebrate with his friends, to come to an understanding with them, and to know that they would keep any secrets he could share. But, now, finally, he felt that he could take a deliberate step towards the future.

All it depended on was reconciling his past.

He took a deep breath and attempted – again – to settle his nerves. The slight movement drew his gaze from the outer world to his reflection in the wavy window panes. 

For a moment, the face he knew from his mirror appeared before him. Grey hairs gleaming amid the brown, creases along his forehead and beside his hooded eyes. Sagging skin at the edges of his clenched jaw. Thin framed black glasses perched on a nose perpetually crooked from so many breaks. Headmaster Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, Master of Death, Ex-Auror, Teacher, Alchemist and Brewer. He raised his left hand to his collar, the new ring winking in the dim sunlight. Was it just this morning that he'd dressed in Quidditch robes and laughed, flying through the sky, burdens thrown to the winds?

His thumb rubbed against the red jewel. It had been time. Time to release the Resurrection Stone. To hide it away until another needed it. Someone else just as desperate as Harry had been. Gringotts would hold it safe until a new evil had risen, a new prophecy was spoken, and another child was thrust into a hero's role much too big for him. Or her. Harry watched the dim green eyes in the reflection harden. He had no doubt that it would happen. He hadn't ended evil; he'd killed one man. One man who had displayed the depth of darkness that a single soul could embrace. There had been evil men before Tom Riddle was born, and there would be more in the future. Now that Harry had played his part, his starring role, the universe had moved him from the floodlights into the shadowy wings. 

As the image before him faded, the fifteen-year-old, the child, become clearer, and Harry made himself a promise. He would embrace this child. Keep him safe. Enlarge his world and show him a new way to live. He would help his friends and hold their interests close to his heart. He would lead Harry-the-child to healing, just as he would others. Sirius. Remus. Neville's parents. But he would not allow the child he resembled to lead. No child should have that responsibility, that weight, on his thin shoulders. Whatever Harry had to do to strengthen his Occlumency shields, to tighten down his internal wards so that the adult could remain in charge, he would do it.

Forcing Gnashrend and Gringotts to certify his adulthood, wearing the Potter crest and acquiring a home – these were a start. A new beginning. Harry nodded to the boy in his reflection. The new robes helped. Cut severely, in the style he'd preferred in his other life, they made him appear older, with broader shoulders. He'd fill out, he knew, but not for another few years. At school, and during that torturous seventh year, Harry had been honed down to skin and bone by nerves, guilt, and constant despair. Now, he'd have a chance to catch up to his height. His mouth turned up. No one would see the adult behind that face, those glasses, that scar. The hair was better, at least, he chuckled, having learned how to keep it neater in his adult life. Harry shook his head, his reflection smiling back through those childish round glasses. Some things were not worth changing. Not right now.

Some things, however, could not wait.

He turned from the window, pacing slowly around the small office. Gnashrend had led Harry here to wait while Severus finalized his plans to sell off his childhood home through the two agents. It would be a simple transaction – easily accomplished. Severus would put the house at Spinner's End into Onnield and Ballard's hands and take any reasonable offer, his belongings charmed to move into a Gringott's approved storage facility until he found a new home. As for the Flamel house, there was much to discuss.

The usual tea and coffee and biscuits sat ignored on a high sideboard – high for goblin statures, at least. Harry's knotted stomach kept his hands from the tea tray, his fists thrust deep into his pockets. 

He'd sensed Severus' interest in the Flamel house. Had seen the spark in the man's eyes when he'd investigated the brewing laboratory. It was as if the house had been especially prepared for the two of them. And, perhaps it had been, Harry considered. Nicholas Flamel had been an extraordinarily gifted alchemist, and he and his wife had combined their skills and research into creating not just the Philosopher's Stone, but many other magical items and spells. Had they tinkered with time travel? With Divination? Very little was known about Perenelle Flamel's interests and abilities beyond her potions-crafting. Outshined by her husband's discoveries, he wondered, or purposefully hidden? Their words to Harry echoed in his memory.

_. "Come and find us again when you need us. As my wife has said, we are always happy to lend aid." The two bent their greyed heads together and began to amble towards the portrait's frame._

_"Sir. Ma'am. Wait."_

_As the two moved slowly out of his sight, the witch leaned back in for a moment, her eyes made huge by the goggles she wore. "We cannot wait, Master Potter. And neither should you. Don't let the old codger distract you from what you know to be your own truth. Your truth is held fast within you – be sure of that." She turned to address someone out of sight. "I'll be right along, dearest. Now," she turned back, "go. Steady your heart. Seal yourself to the proper partner. You'll see us again, I promise."_

The two had implied that their portrait – their consciousnesses, perhaps – moved around in time. Had they prepared their home for him? For Harry and Severus? More research was in order.

But, first …

The wards Harry had set on the door hissed, blazing red in his wizard's sight. Whoever had touched the door backed away and the magical aura he'd been waiting for soothed the active wards to dormancy. Severus swept inside, his gaze sharp and bright, curious as to Harry's caution within the already powerful privacy wards of the bank. 

"I'd just as soon we weren't interrupted," Harry explained.

With a slight bow of acknowledgement, Severus closed the door behind him.

"How did you leave the agents?"

Severus eyes lit with amusement. "Frustrated," he drawled. "They have returned to their offices and are awaiting our decision with some impatience."

Harry chuckled. "I'm not sure if that means they saw a couple of suckers coming from a mile away, or if there really is something supernatural at work here."

"'Suckers'?" Severus echoed.

"Ah," Harry leaned back against the small desk under the window, his arms crossed. "A muggle saying. There was a disreputable man, very charismatic, in the early 20th century, who was able to convince many people that his style of entertainment was noteworthy and enthralling. So much so that many invested in his horror show. He was quoted as saying, 'there's a sucker born every minute.' His meaning was obvious."

"Indeed." Severus swept his robe back out of his way and mirrored Harry's stance. "I took the liberty of inquiring of Gnashrend as to what he had told the agents before we met. He insisted that he merely spoke of two wizards who were seeking private homes in which to continue their research."

"Nothing beyond that?" Harry's eyebrows quirked up.

"So he claimed."

"And your assessment?"

Severus hesitated, lips pressed thin. "Without any evidence to the contrary, I must take the goblin's and agents' words that and they did not prepare their presentation of the Flamel house beforehand."

"I agree." Harry took a deep breath and prepared himself for what must come next. "I would like to begin the process of acquiring the house's acceptance." He held up one hand. "I know, there are matters between us to decide before we can do so. This 'bond' the agents mentioned. I have a solution, if you'll agree to listen." At Severus' silence, Harry continued, determined. "You and Gringotts may consider me an adult, but the wizarding world will not. Not until I'm seventeen. I need a guardian. I'd like that person to be you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your kind comments and kudos!


	31. Occlumency Lessons

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Severus' entire body tensed at Harry's words. He turned his head, eying Harry up and down. "While I admit many things about the house intrigue me, I am not … anxious … to bind myself to any other wizard. I especially do not desire to take on a guardianship for a, supposedly, underage child."

Harry heard the words that Severus had carefully left unsaid. "'Especially me.' That's what you're thinking."

"Are you surprised?"

"No." Not at all. Harry studied the wizard before him. Severus' long, dark hair, often falling forward to hide his face like a curtain. His pallor, a long, crooked nose seemingly built so that he could stare down it at his students in disdain. For years, Harry had feared that image – his soul had cried out with hatred each time the cruel eyes had turned his way. Before he'd known the breadth of Severus' betrayal, how he'd hurried to his Dark Lord with Trelawney's prophecy and signed his mum and dad's death warrant, Harry had returned Severus Snape's obvious loathing with ferocity. Until one moment, one tear, one memory changed everything.

Harry had made peace with a portrait. A living image of the wizard himself. Paint and canvas and magic. But, it wasn't enough. Not now. Not with the real Severus Snape becoming a fixture in Harry's life. A part of Harry still resented the man – a part he'd tried hard to lock away, to rationalize. He swallowed in a dry throat. If he was going to keep his promises to the boy in his reflection, as well as to the wizard standing before him, Harry must lay his secrets out before him. All of his secrets. He would lay them down, and the complicated, deeply burdened, carefully cruel Potions Master would see that Harry and Severus were already linked. Linked by knowledge, by guilt, by their wounded souls. 

That Severus' hand had caused some of the deepest gouges in Harry's spirit, was a secret he could not keep.

"I realize that you have little regard for me in this time frame." Harry's voice was clear, ringing in the small, still room. "In fact, in a month or so, you'd make your disgust for me crystal clear, making sure to remind me of every one of my weaknesses." He kept his tone even, without reproach. "But I hope that this new Harry Potter is quite a bit different from the boy you hated. Different from the image of James Potter, your tormentor, the boasting, arrogant teen who was so jealous of your friendship with Lily Evans that he made your life miserable."

"And what do you know of James Potter's 'torments'," Severus asked, dark eyes icy.

Bowing his head, Harry called up the images he'd found waiting for him in Severus' Pensieve once upon a time. Childish taunts, bullying words, spells that caught the quiet, unpopular student unprepared and humiliated him before all of his peers. "I know about bullies," Harry replied. "I know how they behave; what jealousy and insecurity provoke them to do. Believe me," he raised his head, "the 'arrogant brat' you welcomed to Hogwarts had already experienced bullying. Every day and every night in the household where Dumbledore placed him."

"Oh, really," Severus sneered. "And we became such good friends after my death that we shared our personal stories? You cried about the Dursleys and your little cupboard while I choked out reminiscences about your highly esteemed father and his two henchmen, Black and Lupin, who put Misters Crabbe and Goyle to shame?" Severus snorted. "At least Crabbe never sought to kill you, doing their best to make sure you would meet a hungry, desperate werewolf under the influence of a full moon."

Harry lowered his arms. There were memories of James Potter that Harry had never wanted. As a child, he'd held onto others' words: Minerva's pride, Dumbledore's twinkling-eyed descriptions, and Sirius' love. He'd wanted a father-figure that was the perfect representation of bravery. Of confidence in the face of evil. In his heart, Harry had built up James Potter as a knight on a white charger, dashing in to rescue Lily from Severus' evil clutches. Doesn't every child want to believe that about his father?

Instead, he'd found a man. Insecure. Proud. With a quick temper – like Harry's – and a problem controlling his impulses – also like Harry. James was flawed, a bully in his youth. And yet, finally, a good man. Looking back on his father's short life, Harry had found plenty of things to be proud of the man for. He knew his father had learned many hard lessons before the end and died with many regrets.

Regrets he carried with him into the afterlife. Harry did not want to follow after those footsteps. Fists clenched, he blinked quickly, trying to quiet his emotions. He didn't want that for Severus, either.

"My father hurt you. Nearly killed you. And he was still loved and admired by students and teachers alike." Harry continued, determined. "While your every mistake was held up as evidence that you deserved his treatment."

Severus sneered. "And yet, even as I recognize the changes in your nature, you wonder why I cannot imagine binding myself to James Potter's son?"

"I don't wonder, I told you that," Harry shot back before he tightened down his control. "I don't blame you. But, I've already trusted you with my secrets, Severus. I've put my true nature in your hands." He stared into Severus' eyes, willing an understanding between them – a connection. "I have no doubt that trusting you, that putting myself under your guardianship, is the right thing to do. Not the easy thing, for either of us, but the right thing."

The swift blossoming of their connection surprised Harry. Whether it was the meeting of their eyes, or their faltering inner wards, or even the fledgling bond the two had begun to forge in the headmaster's office after Voldemort's death that caused it, he didn't know, but suddenly, their minds were open. Shields thinned to nothingness, Severus' and Harry's immediate thoughts leapt outward towards the other. A moment later, they'd sunk deep into the other's mind.

Harry struggled to keep his awareness to the upper surface of Severus' thoughts, willing his awareness to retreat. No. His hands reached back and gripped the edge of the desk, the wood squeaking with his effort. He had not been given permission. Severus had not invited him in. Harry had issued the invitation, not Severus. He had promised himself long ago that he would not - ever – comb through another person's mind uninvited.

Strangely, Severus also hesitated. He did not dive straight into Harry's mind as he had once done. Harry's memories of those terrifying nights, the Occlumency lessons, rose up in waves, swamping every other thought. This was his last secret – his worst memory of Severus Snape. Fifteen-year-old Harry had been terrified, furious, and desperate to keep the other man out, to find any tool, any weapon, to turn him away. To _make it stop_. 

All of his efforts had been overwhelmed by Severus' swift and brutal Legilimens attacks as easily as a grown man would physically overwhelm any child. Harry saw his stark white face in his memories, heard his own cries, his tears and pleas for Severus to stop. Severus had taken them as weaknesses, cruelly clawing his way deeper, leaving gaping wounds in Harry's psyche. Nothing had stopped him, then. Nothing had made Severus hesitate to take and take and take, to burrow deeper, his laughter making a mockery of Harry's pain. Not until Harry had violated Severus' Pensieve in retaliation had he stopped.

Severus broke the connection, pitching forward, saved from a tumble to the cold stone floor by Harry's hands on his arms. Eyes closed, all color had drained from the wizard's face. His image matched Harry's in his memory of the Occlumency lessons. Desperate. Pleading for mercy. It was as if Severus had been the one tortured night after night. 

Harry stiffened, stepping back when Severus drew himself away. He did not hurry to speak, or to excuse the wizard's past actions. Severus would not welcome it – and Harry had the self-awareness to know any guilt Severus felt over his nightly rape of Harry's mind when he was fifteen years old was well earned. Standing back from the stricken wizard, Harry withdrew behind his broken shields and waited.

After a few minutes listening to Severus' panting, ragged breaths, Harry began to speak.

"Years ago – or years from now," he added, "depending on how you look at it – I took an oath. An oath to treat all those around me with respect. To enter only when invited – whether it be a home, a business, a classroom, or another's mind." His teeth clacked as he swallowed down his disgust at himself for even considering entering Draco Malfoy's mind just this morning. 

"It seems simple, obvious etiquette learned at a parent's knee. But it was something the Great Harry Potter struggled with. After all, I had no parents' knee, and correct role models the Dursleys were not."

Severus trembled, his face turned away from Harry. 

Harry continued. "No, I had only myself to rely on. And keeping myself safe was very high on my priority list. Myself and my friends. That attitude lingered after the war. To my – Hermione and Ron's, and others' too – detriment." His smile was bitter. "For the children who'd saved the world from Voldemort, all doors were open to us. All homes. All minds. Who would dare stand against us?"

His hands twisting together, Harry winced at the memory. "We were still children, you know. After the war. We'd been forced into adulthood too early. Some said I'd never had a childhood at all. Maybe they were right. All I know is that we grew up without boundaries. Without limitations other children learned. We broke school rules, wizarding law, with no consequences. I used an Unforgiveable Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange in the Ministry of Magic and it was immediately forgotten. We might have lost points for Gryffindor a time or two, but Dumbledore made sure that never stuck." Harry shook his head. "We should have been reined in. But, there was a war to fight, and people were desperate. You were desperate, Severus. I know that now. But, still …" he let his words trail off.

"What I learned – whatever I managed to understand about ethics, right and wrong, how to become a man, I learned at Hogwarts." For better or for worse, Harry admitted to himself. "My role models were Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid - and you."

Severus' head snapped up, black, fathomless eyes searching. 

Harry lowered his gaze to his own hands, to the ring shining on his finger, breaking the connection. "Dumbledore - a man with the weight of history on his shoulders and an all-encompassing mission, who used up his tools as he saw fit. Minerva - rigid and caring, but aloof. Smarter and more powerful than many gave her credit for, but standing back from a real connection to her prize Gryffindor. As for Hagrid." Harry chuckled, "I think we can all agree that under all that hair beats a good heart and, well, a good heart."

"I know you don't want to hear it, but you had quite an effect on me, Severus." Harry felt the lingering pool of his anger and pain drain out through his words, drop by drop. "Your immediate hatred when the rest of the wizarding world had greeted me with admiration made me think. Your attitude, and Draco's and his father's, cemented the idea that all Slytherins were evil and out to hurt me at every opportunity. Your _lessons_ convinced me that you were evil." He smiled and raised his gaze to lock with Severus'. "And then you sacrificed yourself and shared your memories – memories of your failures and of your love for my mother – and I found that I had been wrong all along."

Harry stepped closer. "Those first five – nearly six – years at Hogwarts, I could not comprehend why Dumbledore demanded that I respect you. Why he spoke so highly of you. How he could trust a man who had been in league with the wizards who'd killed my parents, who, when given the task of educating me in Occlumency took the opportunity to torture me night after night." Harry took a deep breath. "And then, with one memory, the past rearranged itself and I could finally see clearly."

Severus had closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were filled with tears, his voice thick with emotion. "Nothing could –"

Harry offered him his hand. "Let me show you." When Severus tried to back through the warded door behind him, Harry added, "From my mind, this time, not yours. Just this once, trust me."

A tiny shake of Severus' head. A twist of his lips.

Harry waited. And waited.

"Please."

That word was Severus' undoing.


	32. Always

"Please."

That word was Severus' undoing.

"Don't plead with me, Potter. Don't you dare." Shaking with rage or disgust or fear - Severus couldn't name all the emotions rushing through him - he pointed his finger and hurled the words across the tiny space between them. "After what I've just seen in your mind, how – how I _damaged_ you, over and over again, you cannot possibly be so pitiful as to plead for my cooperation."

"I will, though." Harry tilted his head. "Plead. Beg. Ask."

"Foolish –"

"- arrogant brat." Harry finished the familiar line with a twisted smile.

Severus gulped in a breath, struggling for a teaspoonful of control. The images from the boy's memories had been lurid, full of raw fear and anguish. What had he done? How could his eagerness for revenge on James Potter have descended into the violation of his son's mind night after night? There could be no explanation, no excuse for it. No possibility of forgiveness. Severus sneered at himself. Putting on a front for Voldemort, just in case the Dark Lord invaded Potter's mind yet again and read Severus' actions there. No. Not even that would excuse him.

He straightened, flexing his aching hands. "I will do what you ask, Potter. If you wish for me to relive those – those _lessons_ – from your perspective it is no more than I deserve. I swear –"

"Stop." Potter's outstretched hand slid away. "I will accept no oath from you, Severus. No claims that you owe me anything, or that, through my mother, that you owe anything to Lily's bloodline." He frowned, solemn insistence clear in his speech and demeanor. "I will not go the way of the Malfoys because you continue to feel guilty for your sins."

Pain struck out from the most guarded parts of Severus' soul. Grief and guilt that stole his breath, his reason, and any shards of control he still grasped. He turned away, tears falling. He could not let the boy – the wizard – see. Lily. The one shining light in Severus' life. Her sweet friendship had pulled him from despair, had promised a better future. His doe Patronus gleamed in his mind's eye, mocking him. He'd failed her. Rejected that friendship in a fit of anger and jealousy. Betrayed her to Voldemort. Years later, his memories and grief binding him much tighter than his oaths to Dumbledore ever could, he'd struck back at her only child.

Yes, Severus had set up puzzles to guard the Philosopher's Stone. He'd whispered charms to keep the boy from falling from his hexed broomstick. He'd gone after him to protect Potter and his friends from Black and the werewolf. Simple charms. Easy warnings. Severus had done what any adult, any teacher, would have done to stand between their students and harm. Minerva, Pomona, Filius – each would have done as much – more, perhaps, none claiming they were performing some heroic feats to honor the memory of their dearest love. 

Oh, but any other teacher would have protected the boy without anger, without hatred and bullying, without the threat of vengeance hovering over the child day after day. Without violating his mind.

Severus had protected the boy from every evil except himself.

"The wards –" he choked out, one hand raised to keep Potter back, to keep him from approaching with some ridiculous words of comfort or forgiveness.

"The wards." Behind him, Potter agreed, his tone nearly matching Severus' in complaint. By the sound of it, he'd come to a grudging acceptance of the matter. "If Dumbledore hadn't set them so strongly, we might never have had this conversation." Potter sighed. "I don't plan on thanking him for it, but, if we're going to work together, it is for the best."

Eyes closed, Severus drew in a deep breath and ignored the boy. Working with Potter was neither necessary nor wanted. He'd appreciated the boy's sudden appearance at Voldemort's mansion, and understood the lengths Potter had gone to in order to destroy the Dark Lord before most of the horrors he'd described had come to pass. He'd been grateful for the insights into Lucius Malfoy's past and the opportunity to save Draco from an equally wretched future. But to be tied to Potter, to Lily's son – to James' son – after what appeared to be years of cruelty dealt him from Severus' own hand?

"No." He shook his head. With a flash of determination, Severus wrenched his Occlumency shields into place, his inner wards fumbling together as if built by a drunken mason. It wasn't pretty, but it would be enough, he thought, to provide a barrier between his turbulent emotions and the outside world. The results were rushed and awkward, but, for now, the worst of his grief and guilt could be hidden away. Another deep breath and he felt strong enough to turn and face the other wizard.

Potter's expression mocked him in its openness. Lines furrowed the teen-aged forehead, lines of experience and guilt that Severus recognized from his momentary glimpse of the adult wizard's true form during Gnashrend's spell. Potter's mouth was set, resolved, a grim line slashed across the boyish face. But the eyes – the eyes were deep green and endless, inviting Severus in.

He drew his robes around him. An ineffective barrier, but it was all he had to hand. "This connection you propose is unnecessary. We had each intended, I believe to find a home of our own, not to invite further ill-feeling by forcing ourselves into daily proximity."

"We are going to be in daily proximity at Hogwarts," Potter returned. "Especially until we've dealt with the Malfoys. My work," Potter reminded him, "involves certain specific tinctures which I will need your help with, Severus. I thought you'd said that you were anxious to speak with me about them?"

"I would prefer –"

"I would prefer many things, Severus. I would prefer to get on with my work. I'd prefer to discuss the Aurors and what they've accomplished among the Death Eaters. To find a way to free you from testifying in Lucius' trial. I'd very much prefer to work out a way to get around these new wards so that I'm not forced to shout my true nature from the top of the Astronomy Tower. But, the wizarding world will not accept a fifteen-year-old wizard living on his own, performing magic he has not been tested on." 

"Then choose Dumbledore as your guardian. Or Minerva. Neither would refuse you."

"Are you refusing me?" Potter cocked his head.

He wanted to say yes. To turn away. His heart hammering, Severus wished fiercely that he could return to the past himself, where a jealous half-blood fool was welcomed into Voldemort's circle. Where that fool ran to his new master with the words of a prophecy.

"This," Severus repeated, dark laughter bubbling in his throat, "this guardianship. Have you any idea the bindings – the type of deep connection that would be required to accomplish such a thing? How – how open we must each be willing to become to finalize the spell?" Severus shook his hair away from his face and leaned in close, looming over the child. "Do you realize how far you must open up your mind to me, Potter? How vulnerable you would be making yourself? To me, your guardian? To the one who hated and abused you so?"

Potter made a face, eyes wide. "Yes."

Severus pulled back, frowning. "You –"

"I've done it before. Become someone's guardian, I mean. Believe me, I realized this situation might take place before I came here. You were always my first choice."

Severus felt his face screw up, his mind screaming in confusion, his mouth gaping wide, hands reaching out towards the foolish boy in front of him. "How?" he cried.

Potter shook his head slowly. "Because I trust you, Severus."

The words were incomprehensible.

The boy continued. "Did you hurt me? Yes. Did you revel in your power over me when I came to Hogwarts? You did. Did you hold childish grudges towards my father and his friends? Had you thrust my mother's friendship away from you with a vile curse? And did you, then, betray her to Voldemort?" Potter's words were soft, but they hit Severus like punches. "You did all those things."

Yes. He had. All that and more. So much more. Potter's insistence that he trusted him, that he'd come back trusting Severus Snape - "It makes no sense," he growled around the flaming lump in his throat.

"It will." Potter insisted. "If you'll take my hand, I'll show you. I'll show you all the 'whys' and 'hows'. It won't be easy – for either of us. But I've been through this before, you see. One moment in time, when I had the least hope, when I was sure Voldemort would win and all those I loved would die – in one moment I saw the events of my life – of your life – with new eyes. With clarity."

Potter was solemn, tears holding at the corners of his eyes. "It will be a difficult journey for you, Severus. But, I promise, it will prove why I trust you. And why I always will."

Severus' skin was drenched with cold fear. The hand reaching out to him, small, childlike, seemed like a snake about to strike. In a moment it would coil around him, forcing Severus to stillness while he was devoured. 

His gaze rose to Potter's face. Those eyes - those green eyes held only kindness. The kindness – the compassion – he remembered shining out from Lily's eyes. Severus could not refuse – not her. Not her son. Severus would always take that hand, accept anything from it. Always.

He let the tottering stone wall of his Occlumency shields collapse and took Potter's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to you all for your kind notes, comments, and kudos. As November dawns and NaNoWriMo begins, I may have less time to respond to your comments, but, believe me, I am reading them and appreciating all who are following this story. Expect a chapter a day now, until I upload the last one. Many blessings!


	33. A Good Man's Life

Severus sank into Potter's mind, his reluctance making progress slow. Potter's awareness moved beside him, directing Severus down particular channels but never barring his way. The memories began with the eleven-year-old's first glance at Severus at the teacher's table in the Great Hall. Severus felt the boy's emotions – excitement, fear, confusion – and then the pain that struck him through the scar on his forehead.

"It wasn't you, it was Quirrell that caused the pain. But I didn't know that at the time."

The boy's voice was a murmur in Severus' ear, barely noticeable as he moved on, not many days ahead, to Potter's first Potions class. Severus had been determined to give the boy a message – a message any wizard-raised child would understand. Asphodel and wormwood – a flower from the lily family, absence, and regret that would follow him to the grave. He'd been angry when the boy had turned a bland, unfeeling face to his pain.

"But I wasn't raised by a wizarding family. Years later I looked it up," Potter's voice reminded him. "Neville helped me. He'd always wondered, you know. Even as he lived in fear of you, he wondered why you'd chosen those particular ingredients to test me during that first class."

Longbottom – his plump face slid away, growing leaner, his eyes wiser, until it became a stoic warrior's face, dried blood caked in his hair.

The past rose up again. Slivers and scenes passed by featuring Severus' frown, a painful grip on Potter's shoulder, mocking sneers and anger. From within Potter, confusion about his professor's attitude was replaced by distrust, frustration, and a matching anger. Whispers among the Gryffindors cast suspicion on Snape, the once Death Eater, the dungeon bat.

Accusations flew back and forth. Lying brat. Death Eater. Arrogant. Greasy git. Attention-seeker. Voldemort's ally. Stupid. Cruel. Irresponsible. Murderer. "Call him Professor Snape, Harry." Dumbledore's voice rebuked.

Quirrell screamed as his body dissolved at the touch of Potter's hands.

Potter's memories were filled with Severus. Threatening Quirrell. Shouting at Weasley and Potter for driving an invisible flying car. Peering at Potter through narrowed eyes on a Dueling Stage. An angry, bitter man handing out detentions in Potions class. Severus' eyes filled with dark joy as he looked down on Lupin's bound body beside the Whomping Willow.

_Slytherin. You'd do well in Slytherin._ The Sorting Hat taunted the boy from high above Dumbledore's desk. "No, you're wrong," the child insisted. 

"Evil wizards came from Slytherin." Potter's voice murmured. "That's what I'd been told. Meeting Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets didn't exactly change my mind."

The Chamber rose up around them, grey walls, snake pillars, Ginny Weasley lying unconscious. Potter was alone. The huge basilisk a dead husk. A fang jutted from the child's arm. As Riddle taunted him, Potter struck the horcrux once, twice, and Riddle screamed.

Potter watched the Weasley girl open her eyes, Severus felt the child's joy even as he believed that he was dying. It was okay, Potter thought. It didn't matter. Everyone would know he wasn't evil, the Heir of Slytherin – that was enough.

Severus hovered near the image, struggling to understand. "You were afraid –"

"Afraid that I was evil? Yes. I spoke Parseltongue. I had power others did not. I killed Quirrell with my bare hands when I was eleven years old. Dumbledore praised me for it. Rewarded Gryffindor. And told me I was expected to kill again." Potter's voice shook. "And I did."

Even the most carefree, innocent child would be twisted by those expectations, Severus realized. Through Potter's childish eyes, Severus looked again at his own image. The tall, snarling man dressed all in black, Slytherin, tormenter. To a young boy's eyes, Severus was the image of evil played out in front of him on a daily basis. Not a boogeyman like Voldemort, or an arch-villain like Lucius Malfoy, but a man who had been twisted by his own life, his own grudges – his own choices.

When Potter looked at Severus, Dumbledore's tool, his most trusted servant, the boy had been afraid he was seeing his own future

The scene changed, and Potter's younger mind was suddenly filled with roiling grief and self-doubt. Anger followed, burning up the child's limited self-control. The TriWizard Tournament was not an exciting challenge, but a trap waiting to close its teeth on the fourteen-year-old. His friends turned away – the entire school branding Potter a cheat. Severus was revealed as a Death Eater, sought out by Karkaroff, suspected by Moody, warned against by Dumbledore. Black eyes stared out from Severus' stark white face, promising a foul future Potter couldn't imagine. Dragon-fire burned against the boy's skin. The black lake tried its best to drown him. The maze confounded him. The turmoil inside the child was far worse.

The visions began. Visions of Voldemort. Of death. Destruction. The Dark Mark. The boy's bones rattled with Voldemort's shrill laughter. More evidence, Potter believed, of his own rotten core.

The graveyard rose up in Potter's memory. Terror gripped his bowels. Severus watched Voldemort's reanimation and felt Potter's torture. Cedric Diggory's ghost pleaded for the boy's help. Fear and guilt tore at his mind. Anger at Dumbledore's withdrawal, Snape's constant threats. Moody's face melted, revealing yet another enemy behind the eyes of a friend.

Severus stood before Potter, the Dark Mark revealed on his arm. In Potter's loneliness and grief, in shock from his own injuries and the Diggory boy's death, he saw only his own future, a future of leashed evil, trained to kill, no matter what Dumbledore whispered in his ear.

Umbridge's face loomed large, and, with it, pain. The child's hand burned, his inner will enflamed with rage and resistance. Before the entire school, the foul woman made Potter her enemy – and he accepted the challenge. This would be proof, Potter told himself as he stood in front of his friends in the Room of Requirement. Proof of his goodness. Of his compassion. With his faithful Gryffindors behind him, Potter would stand against Umbridge's lies, head held high.

And then Severus' awareness swept through other memories – memories beyond his own timeline. Potter's history marched on, down a different path than the one Severus was living.

Voldemort's snakelike face loomed in the boy's mind, taunting, promising a wealth of torture for Potter, the deaths of all of his friends, everything taken away. Potter clung to life, to hope, with both hands. Dumbledore's retreating back, his face turned purposefully away broke him. 

A black-and-white image, scales hissing against a dark, tile floor. Arthur Weasley attacked, struck again and again, red blood the only color in Potter's mind. Panic swept through the boy.

Occlumency lessons. 

"Dumbledore turned me over to you with a wave of his hand. Gave me to you. As if I was to be your apprentice in darkness. The lessons – " Potter flipped through those memories like a child's picture book of hate and fear.

They froze on a single image. Potter, alone in Severus' office. The Pensieve calling to him, giving him a chance to strike back against his tormentor. To find out what Severus had been hiding in there before each Occlumency lesson.

The boy saw James Potter's taunts. Black's laughing face. Humiliation. Dread. Severus' sheer panic at Lupin's transformation and attack. The school brushing off Severus' injuries while patting its beloved Gryffindors on the head.

The memories swirled to mist all around Severus, grey and gritty, as if he stood at the center of a dust storm. Potter appeared before him, stepping from the edge of the storm. Forty-six year old Potter, wearing dark-red robes, one shade away from black. Thicker built, the wizard was taller than Severus and wore an attitude of confidence and detachment that Severus found much too familiar.

"I apologize for breaching your privacy, Severus."

"Don't –"

Potter didn't hesitate. "But, this moment was where it all began. The change. The clarity. So, while my apology is real, I can't regret how it changed my view of you."

Severus couldn't speak. He imagined himself preparing to force himself into Potter's mind. Imagined the memories he would want to keep separate, away from any fumbling attempts the child made at Legilimency. His torment at the hands of Potter's father and his minions were the least of those. Somewhere swirling in the depth of his Pensieve, he'd no doubt hidden his betrayal of Lily Potter. His actions as a Death Eater. 

Before he could respond, Potter had vanished, and new memories rose up around Severus, hurrying past as if unimportant.

Forced into a chair in Umbridge's office, Potter, his friends held tight by Slytherins around him, defied the pink witch. Severus felt the boy's shock as the woman slapped him across the face and then threatened him with the Cruciatus Curse. Potter's fear for Black overwhelmed it all.

Severus' figure stepped into Potter's memory through Umbridge's doorway and he felt Potter's spirit soar. The boy recognized Snape as a lifeline. A powerful ally. The change in the boy's thinking was frightening, as if a foundation of trust had been built by one memory. But Potter's remembered relief was tainted with suspicion. Severus hated Black. He'd want him to die at Voldemort's hand …

"He's got Padfoot …"

Severus felt the boy's heart pound in his chest as the figure of himself within Potter's memory claimed not to understand.

Thestrals. Weasley caught in a brain's tendrils, Luna Lovegood rescued by Longbottom. Potter's memories sped by, faster and faster, until Severus' awareness locked onto one single scene – Sirius Black drifting through the veil, dead.

Now, desperation colored every image. Desperation and despair. Potter felt alone. Tangled up in grief. He followed Draco through Hogwarts' halls. Confronted him in a bathroom, cast a spell 'for enemies' that only Severus knew. Potter had drawn first blood. Self-loathing curled in Potter's heart as he watched, speechless, as Severus knelt over the boy to try to heal him.

In a cave beside a churning sea, Harry forced a fading Dumbledore to drink cursed water and then returned to watch helplessly as he died. As Severus killed him.

"No," Severus held onto the image of the Astronomy Tower, forcing Potter's memories to a halt. "Never."

A tumult of emotion hurled Potter into following a fleeing Snape. Enemy. Killer. At the edges of Hogwarts' Apparition wards, through tear-filled eyes, Potter blinked up at Severus' sneering face looming over him. Inside, the boy wizard looked into Severus' eyes, saw himself, and pleaded for Severus to tell him it wasn't true.

"I didn't know –" he heard Potter murmur. "I didn't know."

With no time for explanations, Severus moved through the sea of trials of Potter's seventh year. Sleeping rough. Searching for any clues. Grasping at the meaning of Dumbledore's last gifts. Every act, every decision filtered through Potter's need for revenge. He'd come to trust Severus, at least a bit. And Dumbledore had died.

And then – a doe shining in the black forest. Severus caught his breath. His Patronus.

"My mother's," Potter explained. "I was sure…"

Scenes raced past. Pain. Grief. The sound of Granger's spellcasting, Weasley's anguished cries, the shrill tones of a House Elf. Dobby, a knife sticking out from his chest.

Hogwarts walls rose up around them, broken and battered, children's bodies lying amidst the rubble. Severus heard screams in the background, the great aching cries of grief and fear. Colors were dim; within Potter's mind, the world was grim, hopeless. His body ached. His mind stumbled over thoughts and strategies. Beside him, Weasley and Granger were thin and spent, faces drawn, eyes burning coals.

Crumbled stone. Broken walls. Children dead. Hogwarts falling.

"This," Potter whispered, hauling Severus' awareness towards the Shrieking Shack.

Blood spurting from a ragged wound in Severus' neck. His own dark eyes seeking out Potter's, a desperate gesture and Potter's hand collecting a memory at Severus' last.

"This is the end – and, the beginning."

In a swirl of green and silver, Severus was watching his own memories unfold from within Potter's mind through a Pensieve. Memories of Lily. Of their friendship. Of Severus' devotion. Of his sad life at Spinner's End transformed into joy by the friendship of a red-headed, muggle-raised girl. Severus tried to close his eyes, to shut them out, but this was Potter's mind, his domain.

As he watched Severus' and Lily's friendship grow, revenge fell away from Potter's psyche. Hatred and rage turned to shock. Amazement. Severus, the snide and sneering Death Eater falling to his knees before Albus Dumbledore, begging, pleading. Accepting any punishment. Any consequences from Dumbledore's hand if he would only protect her – protect them, the Potters, from Voldemort.

In Potter's mind, the darkness shrouding Severus drifted away until he stood, revealed, vulnerable. A petty man had chosen a cruel life, but - _too late, too late, too late_ , Severus cried – he could not choose not to love Lily Evans. That love, denied, rejected, had been there all along. It had kept Severus' heart beating, fueled his passion, and was, after all, the lynchpin of his soul. When Severus climbed over the wreckage in Godric's Hollow and wept over Lily's body, his heart broke open. His Patronus transformed into a doe. 

_'Always.'_

Potter's older memories hurried into the spotlight once again, one after the other, to be examined under this new filter of truth, the truth of Severus' love and regret. His oaths to Dumbledore. His guilt. His disgust at Harry's resemblance to James Potter. His desperation to protect an ungrateful, reckless, foolhardy child.

Each memory was transformed. Changed. Altered by Potter's new knowledge of Severus' motivations. His coldness towards Potter, his obvious disdain was revealed as a mask Severus wore – a mask good enough to fool Voldemort should he return.

Severus started the Dueling Club to demonstrate defensive spells. He raged at the risks Potter took with his life, a life Lily had sacrificed herself to protect. He raced after Lupin, panic making him hurl himself towards the Whomping Willow, where he'd once nearly died, to keep the boy safe. In Potter's future, Severus saw himself in Dumbledore's office, treating the headmaster's cursed arm while Dumbledore begged him to kill him and save Draco Malfoy from his fate.

"I had feared I would become you, Severus. Raised by Dumbledore to be another lonely, remorseless killer. To take my rightful position as the leader of his army, destroying the enemy. When – when you died, when you shared your heart, your memories with me, I realized that, if I had become like you, even a little, I would be a good and brave man."

No," Severus tried to draw away. "I was not faultless. Don't – don't -"

"Of course not," Potter returned. "You chose your mask to best resemble your true feelings. Your feelings about James Potter, my father. It was not hard to see him when you looked at me."

Severus shivered. At first. At first it had been too easy. And now, now it was impossible. Impossible not to see Lily shining from those green eyes.

"You were the one who sent me the Sword of Gryffindor. You made sure Ron found me, and that, together, we found a weapon to destroy the pieces of Tom Riddle's soul. You were so strong, Severus. So brave. Fooling Voldemort about your true intentions until the very end." Potter's words were warm. "It is our choices who show us who we truly are."

One last memory coalesced around him. Potter walked, alone, into the forest. Prepared. Ready to meet his end. Potter's innermost thoughts were not filled with anger or despair. He did not quake at his fate. When Potter faced the Dark Lord with no hope of survival, his heart had been full. Full of love for his friends, for his lost family, for flying and Quidditch and silly pranks and a red-headed Weasley girl. But the face he held in his mind's eye that had given him the courage to take those last steps to his death was Severus'.


	34. The Potion Master's Apprentice

Filling out and filing the guardianship papers was a mere formality after Harry led Severus through his memories. Gnashrend bustled around, busy with ink, seals, Gringotts' charms, and parchments, sending off requests for references to Minerva and Poppy by owl, and notifying Dumbledore of the change of guardianship with a large, sealed parchment, carried by a huge, fierce-looking eagle-owl that was commanded to sit on his shoulder and screech until he signed it. Both Minerva's and Poppy's parchments arrived quickly, affixed to the Gringott's Morph Owl which winked at Severus a few times before being shooed away.

Harry and Severus did not say much. It was not necessary. Harry knew that the other wizard was stunned, holding onto his composure with an iron discipline learned while living his double life. 

Gnashrend assured Harry that his relatives would be notified of the change in Harry's status in due course, and any belongings of his that remained at the Dursley's house would be retrieved by Gringotts officials. Harry had smiled, imagining Aunt Petunia opening the front door to find a pair of goblins on her front step. At least the news would make her happy – she'd never have to see Harry again or any of those 'freaky folk.'"

When Harry had begun to collect his things to leave, Severus had finally spoken.

"I believe we should take one more precaution."

Frowning, Harry turned to the other wizard. "Precaution? Against what?"

Severus' eyes were matte black, all emotions concealed behind them. "Against any who would attempt to fight this. Two wizards in particular come to mind." He tilted his head. "Or do you think the mutt will simply roll over when he hears that his most hated enemy has made off with his godson?"

"Although Sirius Black has been cleared of all charges by the Ministry, he could not be considered for legal guardianship. Not until he has availed himself of Wizarding Healing Services and has been pronounced cleared of Azkaban's influence." Gnashrend snarled, its thin lips curving over sharp teeth. "In the odd event of a prisoner's release from that place," his tone made his disapproval of the prison clear, "proper healing spells are cast to reduce the lingering effects of the soul-eating deprivation. He escaped, bypassing any such healing. Until he is examined – and pronounced whole – he will have no legal status in the wizarding world."

"He's already acting as an Auror," Harry began. "And what about his home?" The Fidelius Charm kept Harry from mentioning Grimmauld Place directly.

"The Ministry may have endowed Mister Black with temporary Auror duties in this present crisis, however he, himself, will be in need of a legal guardian until he presents himself to the proper healers."

Harry shook his head. "He's not going to like it." He thought back to the angry wizard he'd left in the school infirmary. "Sirius thinks he's fine. That he doesn't need healing." 

"But you know differently," Severus offered, his voice gentle. "You know I have no love for the cur – his stint in Azkaban has only worsened his innate impulsiveness and honed his desire for vengeance against perceived enemies. Whether he admits it or not, Black requires healing. And that is another reason for my request."

"Maybe you should just tell me," Harry sighed.

"I believe it would be wise if you were to become my apprentice." Severus folded his hands in his lap. "It would give us one further bond beyond the guardianship. It would also provide specific rules for our interactions – a layer of protection for the apprentice from any abuse by the master. It would, in fact, create personal and professional boundaries that would stand up against the guardianship's allowances, giving you the right to security and privacy of your own mind, magic, and person. An apprentice is always supplied with a fully independent set of rooms within the home of the master, and the right to refuse – forcibly, if necessary – any commands or requests that he feels infringe upon his freedom. And, perhaps most importantly, it would keep the Potter, Peverell and Evans' estates completely out of my hands."

Harry examined Severus' logic. The wizard was uncomfortable – to say the least – in having any more power over Harry's mind. He had agreed to the guardianship, but the idea of bearing any parental rights, rights to discipline Harry in any physical or mental way, obviously made Severus sick. But, beyond the wizard's strained feelings, Harry saw his point. "While Dumbledore could contest the guardianship, he could not contest an apprenticeship, could he?"

Gnashrend answered. "No. An apprentice may sign a limited contract with the master of his choice at the age of fifteen. When he comes of age at seventeen, all previous contracts are voided, and the adult apprentice may take other employment contracts as he chooses." He nodded approvingly at Severus. "Shall I have the paperwork drawn up?"

"Yes," Harry agreed. "One and a half years, until my seventeenth birthday, set to begin last night at midnight."

"The master will provide room and board when the apprentice is not at Hogwarts and shall bear the responsibility of mentoring him through his OWLs. Once his OWLS are taken," Severus added, "it will be the apprentice's decision whether or not to remain at Hogwarts or, at his request, he will be moved into active on-the-job training, finishing his education by tutoring under the guiding hand of his master away from the school." Severus narrowed his eyes, staring coldly at Harry. "NEWTs in Potions, Arithmancy, Charms, Transfigurations, and Herbology will be required to be passed with at least an EE."

"Brilliant!" Harry grinned. He could get away from Hogwarts – permanently – at the end of this school year. His smile faded as he thought it through. "But, that would mean that you'd be leaving Hogwarts after this year. If you're to be seen as training me, I mean."

"I will be training you, Mister Potter," Severus insisted, "until I am sure of your mastery of proper brewing procedures and the necessary wand-work required for your future. After that, I believe a time devoted to pure research to be something I can look forward to." He leaned closer as if sharing a secret. "You didn't think me to be a natural teacher, did you? Or that I particularly liked the idea of standing over clumsy dunderheads year after year as they tried to find new ways to detach or permanently maim body parts?"

"Well, now that you mention it," Harry laughed.

"I could always return to teaching after you attain your NEWTs, if I desired to punish myself further," Severus added. "Do not take this as a particularly self-sacrificing decision. The purpose for my presence at Hogwarts no longer exists. The Boy Who Lived, the Saviour of the Wizarding World has gone, as has Voldemort. One no longer needs protecting, the other no longer holds any power over me."

A pale face set atop a set of green Quidditch robes emerged from Harry's memory. "But, what about Draco? He'll still be at Hogwarts. Won't he need you there with him?"

Severus thought for a moment. "I suggest, instead of making plans for my godson, that we put the question to Draco himself and see how he feels. In any event, we will all remain at the school to finish out this year. By then, Lucius' fate will be decided. And," Severus drew his robes together, "perhaps Draco's as well."

The goblin had the proper documents ready for their seals and signatures in a few minutes. For some reason, standing beside Severus, swearing to the Apprenticeship Bond seemed more serious, deeper – truer – than the guardianship had been. The guardianship had been a legal fiction, after all. Gringotts had already affirmed that Harry was an adult. This time, the magic within Harry reached out, accepting the connection, flaring up in visible waves of rose and gold before Harry uttered the words. Severus' magic responded, pale green and slate magics combining with Harry's into a solid chain that linked the two. However slim the bond of the guardianship, this contract between Harry and Severus was true. Entered into without qualm or fear, outside of the strain of their pasts.

"This bond cannot be broken unless and until both wizards repudiate the connection, or it is proven that one or the other has proven false to his pledge." Gnashrend muttered in Gobblydegook, one claw sketching runes in the air above Severus and Harry's joined right hands. "With this we bind, with this we link, or gold be turned to worthless zinc. Master to Apprentice sworn; Apprentice to Master, shall be sorn."

Harry felt the link settle down beneath his conscious mind. He reached out instinctively and found Severus' hand there, meeting his. Beyond the physical, Severus' presence hovered in Harry's mind. Not intruding, not forcing his way through or sneering at his memories. He could not see into Severus' mind or share his feelings. It was more like the wizard was standing next to Harry, offering to help. Firm. Constant. Friend. Confidant.

He looked up to find the same surprise in Severus' eyes. Surprise. Interest. Curiosity. Not a shade of disgust or discomfort, but something that looked very like gratitude.

"I had not thought –" Severus began but never finished the statement. "A few of my more advanced students had sought me out in the past, requesting an apprenticeship. I had to refuse them all, of course."

"For obvious reasons," Harry added. "It's a – a stronger bond than I'd imagined it would be."

Severus lifted his chin as if expecting a blow. "Does that worry you?"

"Not at all." Harry grinned. "In fact," Harry did a quick assessment of his internal Occlumency shields, "I think we are going to be quite a formidable pair, Severus."

"Merlin help the wizard who tries to break that bond." Gnashrend was chuckling to itself as it set its papers in order. "Gentlemen. Anything else?"

Harry observed the quick shake of Severus' head. He was eager to be gone. So was Harry. "I think that's enough for one afternoon."

Lurching to his feet, Gnashrend gave the wizards another of his toothy grins. "It has been a banner day for Gringott's, certainly. May I expect an owl as to your interest in the Flamel estate?"

"Please inform the agents that Mister Potter and I will make ourselves available to begin the process of purchasing the home and lands at their convenience. Agreed?" 

"Yes. Absolutely." Another link in the chain that would lead Harry to his future. It … felt right.

Severus huffed, distracted. "I suppose you intend us to nursemaid a recovering werewolf there for the time being?"

"Hm," Harry pressed a finger to his lips. "Actually, I had another idea about that. I'll pursue it when we return to Hogwarts." Harry did not intend to become the manipulating interferer that Dumbledore had been, but one small prod in the right direction might do Remus a world of good. Andromeda Tonks had already proven herself a witch of insight and compassion in this timeline. As she was Sirius' favorite cousin, the idea of Remus staying with Andromeda to recover might appeal to the wizard.

"I will have the agents send the proposal documents to you both at Hogwarts. Now," Gnashrend moved around the wizards to open the door, "best be on your way. I have a feeling," he laid one finger along his crooked nose, "that there is someone impatiently waiting at Hogwarts for your return."

"More than one person," Severus muttered as the two hurried through the bank lobby and out into the windy dusk. He pulled his cloak around his shoulders. 

Severus hesitated on the steps of the bank, shadows moving across his stern face.

Shivering, Harry prodded at him. "Severus? Second thoughts?'

"None at all," the wizard answered. "However, before we beard the lion in his den, perhaps we should seek to attain one more ally in this … endeavor. And kill two birds with one stone." He held out his arm for Harry's grasp. "I assume asking you to trust me at this late date would be a waste of words?"

Harry gripped Severus' arm. "Lead on, Master Snape."

"Oh, indeed," was Severus' only answer.

After a dizzying whirl of images and the tangled sounds of voices, Harry and Severus reappeared outside of a battered, run-down building at the end of a dark alley. The wooden sign squeaked in the wind, its paint faded, proclaimed it 'The Hog's Head Inn.'

"Perfect," Harry said. He yanked open the door. "After you."


	35. A Great Man

Plates and glasses littered the table and Aberforth sat back, puffing a cloud of smoke to wreath his grey head. He'd welcomed the two to his private quarters above the bar, quite happy to leave the busy bar to his barkeep, a rotund witch with quick dark eyes that seemed to see into every dark corner and behind her back. Juggling two full trays of beer mugs, she'd shooed the trio up the stairs and out of her way.

Aberforth had greeted the two with a grunt, provided dinner and drinks, and listened. If Harry had to describe Aberforth Dumbledore with one word it would be stoic. He'd suffered losses, watched his family destroyed, and ignored the front pages and high political circles that continually lauded his brother's every action. But, behind all the hair, the gruff exterior, and the few words he spoke to anyone, Aberforth's mind was just as quick as Albus', and far more humble.

After the Battle of Hogwarts, it had been Aberforth who'd worked the hardest to rebuild the castle, and to make sure it did not turn into a monument to either his flawed brother or the Boy Who Lived. Aberforth and Neville, brought together through desperate need and exceptional character, had overseen the restoration of the grounds, the gardens, and the outbuildings. They'd made themselves the protectors of the house elves, mer-folk, and the centaurs, insisting Hogwarts' magical creatures be rewarded for their loyalty with safe, secure, comfortable places to live and recover. And those two – along with Professors Sprout and Sinestra - created the widely regarded Student-Staff committee that went on to revise and reshape the curriculum of Hogwarts from a hidebound separatist set of classes into one that took wizard education into the future.

Aberforth might be seen by most as the weird Dumbledore brother who ran an unseemly pub and preferred the company of goats to people, but Harry knew him as a faithful friend, a quiet scholar, and a man with deep insight into his fellow wizards. He absorbed Harry's story with a few grunts of surprise and a penetrating gaze. 

"Sounds like you two have done what's necessary."

Severus had left the story-telling to Harry. Now he set his pint glass on the table and leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps for now. My purpose in coming to you, besides keeping the promise Mister Potter made to return with his tale, is to ask why. Why is Albus interfering so specifically with our minds and lives?" Severus made a gesture that included Harry. "For what strategic purpose would he act to make sure that Potter's story came out?"

A large puff of smoke emerged from behind Aberforth's beard. "Seems obvious. Use your head, Severus."

When Severus remained silent, Aberforth continued.

"Albus has always had a need to be at the heart of things. Even as a child he would sneak downstairs and listen to our parents talk late at night when we were meant to be in bed, sleeping, like good children. There's something deep," Aberforth tapped his barrel chest, "some fear, some worry, that gnaws at him. When I was younger, I thought it was all ego. Thinkin' he was smarter than everyone else. Better at spells, at strategies, that he could see what others missed. Thinkin' if _he_ didn't do something, the others were going to get it wrong."

A chill ran its icy fingers down Harry's spine. "And, now?" he asked.

Aberforth lowered his pipe, staring down at it as if it held all the answers. "You know the history. Albus' best friend was Gellert Grindelwald. My brother threw the whole weight of his support behind that menace. Wouldn't listen to anyone. 'Specially not me, his little brother. No, Albus always knew better." Aberforth raised icy blue eyes to stare at Harry. "And then Ariana died."

Harry nodded. His own mistakes – his own foolhardy stupidity and regrets – rose up within him. Cedric had died. Sirius had died. How many others? Harry might be angry with Dumbledore's high-handed interference, the way he'd kept so much from Harry all those years ago, but his own memories would only allow him to judge Dumbledore with the same severity that he judged himself.

"Albus was proven wrong. Wrong in the biggest way possible. Now, in any other wizard, you'd think that would make him humble. Doubt himself." A dark rumble worked its way out of Aberforth, making his whole body and the chair beneath him shake. "No. Instead, he tightened down his control. Figured that was the problem, you see. He'd let things get too far out of his control. He'd let Grindelwald get ahead of him. Took his eye off him at the wrong moment." He leaned forward. "Grindelwald wanted no less than to rule the world – wizarding and muggle alike. Albus saw himself standing beside him. Once he saw, once he woke up to the darkness inside his friend, well, Albus never made a move for the limelight again. He stayed in the background. Headmaster of Hogwarts – teaching little ones the way. From here, Albus figured, he could weave his web quietly, like a great spider, waiting. Ready. All his chessmen in place out there," Aberforth waved his pipe and the smoke billowed out to every corner of the room, "reporting back to him. A word here, a letter there, and he made sure he held on tight to all those strands. In touch with all the levels of society but not under scrutiny."

"And his position as Head Mugwump? How did that play into this strategy?" Severus shook his head. "You say that Albus never trusted the limelight, and yet, how often have we seen his name in the papers? His advice sought out?"

"'Sought out.' Yah hit it on the head there, Severus. Always playing the bashful wallflower, our Albus. Needs to be asked, begged, nearly, to give his opinion." Aberforth shrugged. "But, you see, thing is, Albus is brilliant, isn't he? He defeated Grindelwald. Bested the worst Dark Wizard of his age. He saw through that boy Riddle as soon as he met him. Knew Riddle and Grindelwald were two of a kind. And," he pointed a short, stubby finger at Harry, "if your tale is true, Albus had a plan to defeat Voldemort, didn't he? And it was gonna cost him his life. And that price, his life – your life," he turned to Severus, "yours, too, and mine – was a price he was willing to pay to save the world. 'Cause that's it, really. Saving the world. That's what Albus sees as his duty."

"How –"

Aberforth interrupted Severus almost before he'd started. "Our mum had a saying. Taught it to Albus. He was the oldest, you see. Made him responsible for the rest of us, in her mind. Happened to be out in the back garden one day, the three of us. Albus was reading some school book, practicing with his wand, Ariana and I were playing. We didn't see the snake until we'd stepped on it. Ariana shrieked, got Albus' attention. 'It's more afraid of you than you are of it,' he muttered, shaking his head and going back to his book. I saw mum coming down the path behind him. She tugged 'im up by the ear and dragged him to us. 'Albus Dumbledore,' she snapped. 'That snake could have bitten your little sister. She could be sick – or dead – by now. Listen to me, boy,' she'd said, 'if you see a snake in the garden, if you see it threatening someone you love, that's your snake, boy. Yours to clean up. Don't you wait for someone else to do something. Don't you expect mum or dad to take care of it, or your brother or sister.'"

"He learned that lesson all right." Aberforth's gaze was far away. "After that, it was all the same to Albus. Snakes. Spilled ink. Hinkypunks in the forest. A fellow student cheating on a test. Stupid laws. Dark wizards. If he saw it, he didn't run to a parent or a teacher, he did something about it."

"Couldn't be everywhere, though, could he? See everything. So, he put himself in the center, surrounded by, well, you could call us his house elfs, couldn't you?" He chuckled, belching smoke. "Tools, we were. All of us. Tools to take down the snakes in the world's gardens."

"That is – " Severus was frowning, one hand tapping on his knee, "not a completely mad way of living one's life. Would that there were more wizards and muggles who sought to take personal responsibility for the change they desired to see in the world. However …"

Aberforth grunted in agreement.

Harry dropped his gaze to his hands twisting in his lap. Yes. He saw it all too clearly. The parallels. He might not know the daily stories of the Dumbledore household, but he understood how a boy could grow to believe that saving the world, defeating the darkness, was all his responsibility. Albus Dumbledore knew magic, he lived inside a world of spells and magical creatures, with the history of a powerful family running through him. Harry had been a young boy who'd been cast into the wizarding world with no data, no history, and little knowledge of himself. But, what Harry and Dumbledore both had, deeply ingrained, born within them and, in Harry's case, nurtured in a cupboard under the stairs, was a sense that, if he saw a problem, it was up to him to do something about it. Not because he was inherently smarter, or more powerful, like Dumbledore, but because he couldn't trust anyone else.

Were adult wizards trying to steal a powerful relic? Had a child been kidnapped and drained of life? Was a man unjustly imprisoned, a hippogriff sentenced to death? Had some unknown force demanded Harry take part in a deadly tournament? Was his godfather in danger? All those things, he admitted to himself, had sent Harry running into danger. Racing to take up the challenge. Because, at the heart of him, just like Albus Dumbledore, Harry believed it was all up to him.

"It's not all pride. Ego," Harry muttered, his eyes still downcast. "Sometimes – sometimes it's fear. Fear that no one is going to believe you. That no one will care. That, if you take the chance, the time, to explain what's happening, that you won't do it right. That your words won't be enough. That it will be too late. People will die." He raised his eyes to the two wizards. "People you love."

"Potter." Severus shifted in his chair to look into his eyes. "We are not discussing an orphaned boy who was sharpened and honed to a weapon by his experiences and expectations. We are discussing –"

"You could be," Harry interrupted. "You could easily be talking about me. Look, I'm not saying that we should excuse Dumbledore's actions, that understanding the way he thinks absolves him of every time he's used me – or you. But it does awaken something inside me. Compassion. Sympathy, I guess."

"I have no doubt that Albus loves," Harry continued, trying to put all of his tumultuous emotions into words. "That he loved his sister. You, Aberforth." He nodded to the large wizard. "He's fond of his students, his staff. I do believe he loved Grindelwald. And that, in his heart, he hoped to redeem Tom Riddle from his awful childhood and lead him towards the light. He loves you, Severus. And, me, too." Harry knew his smile was watery, weary. "But his fear, his fear of making another mistake, of getting it wrong, again, is far stronger. And that's what he acts on. Not his love – his fear."

"He sets his every action purposefully, lays plots and plans and strategies like the chess master he is." Severus pursed his lips. "He's trying to assure the right outcome. Make sure his king is protected. No matter what other pieces he must intentionally sacrifice to make it so."

Harry swallowed and gazed back at Aberforth. "He's afraid now, isn't he? Even with Voldemort dead and most of the Death Eaters rounded up. He's still afraid."

Aberforth's sat back, staring, measuring the Harry Potter who sat before him. "You see it. You see it because you lived it, didn't ya?"

Harry nodded. "I did. In my other life. Voldemort was dead. His minions defeated. And yet the wizarding world couldn't rest. We were so afraid of making another mistake, of trusting the wrong people with power, so afraid of the slightest hint of darkness that we forgot to be happy. To live. To love. To forgive. To temper justice not with fear and vengeance, but with mercy."

"All those cords of power that Albus has been collecting, braiding together into a thick plait that only someone with his power can hold, they're unraveling." Severus' face was pale in the dim light of Aberforth's candles. "You, Potter, yanked many out of his hands at your return. I brought back Voldemort's body, thrusting myself into the limelight, unwanted as it is. And now we threaten to leave his side, bringing Minerva, and the Malfoys, and others with us."

"Frayed ends," Aberforth added. "Albus is holding nothing but frayed ends, now. And it's maddening to him." He lurched forward on his chair and banged his pipe on a dish on the table, emptying it of burnt tobacco. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a pouch from the mantle and began refilling it, plunging one large thumb into the bowl to tamp down the leaves. "He's clutching them all the tighter to try to make up for it. That's what you're feelin', right there. It's manipulation, right enough, but it's not out of selfishness, or evil. His plans are destroyed, falling to pieces. The chessmen are moving on their own. To my brother, it's chaos."

"People can do terrible things out of fear." Harry remembered Dumbledore's memories of a child in an orphanage. A child who promised retribution to anyone who tried to hurt him. But, unlike Tom Riddle, Dumbledore wasn't afraid for himself. Instead of protecting himself at all costs, Dumbledore wanted to save the world.

"Albus Dumbledore," Harry began, "is a great man. A great wizard. With powerful magic and a brilliant mind at his disposal. But, that's the thing. He's a great man – but he's not a good man." He rubbed one hand across his forehead, thinking back to the strangest conversation he'd ever had. "Between my death and my resurrection, I had a talk with him. He explained a bit. About his actions." He looked into two sets of disbelieving eyes and shrugged. "I honestly don't know how much of it was my own mind trying to make sense of things, of him, of my life and death. But I stopped blaming him, after that. I saw him, you see. Without his masks, without that twinkle in his eye. I saw the real Dumbledore. Not perfectly omniscient. Not without flaw."

"Oh, the man's flawed. Just you ask me, I'll tell ya," Aberforth mumbled between puffs on his pipe as he struggled to light it.

"I don't think he ever considered that he could have defeated Voldemort any other way." Harry fought to remember Albus' exact words. "He wasn't sorry that I'd had to die. Not exactly." That white place, the bare sketch of King's Cross Station around him, had been a symbol of Harry's choices, Albus had told him. A choice to go back or to go on. "At that moment, when I was finally truly free of his control, of the prophecy, the expectations of the wizarding world, I found that Dumbledore was free, too. For the first time in his long life, he had no work to do. And, at the last, he seemed … lost."

"Voldemort's dead. Severus is free from his stupid choice to join the menace. You, boy," Aberforth said the word with dark irony, "have your own plans. And Albus has got to find a new purpose." Aberforth stirred, frowning. "Seems you two have enough on your plate. And," he sighed, "it's time I dealt with my own snake in the garden, isn't it?"

Harry's heart thumped. "What will you do?"

One almost-familiar blue eye winked at him. "Best you leave that to me. Now. Get on with you, you two. Been gone long enough."

Severus sigh was loud and bitter. "You know who will be waiting for us. I had hoped to return late enough to put him off until the morning."

"Stop your whining, Severus. The old boys of the Wizengamot are tottering around the grounds. Some students, Weasleys, I think, challenged them to a game of bowls. My brother's a bit busy making sure none of them break their necks – or hips, more likely." He rose and gestured towards his fireplace. "Mind your own business and I'll mind mine. Good enough?"

"Your word has always been good enough for me, Aberforth."

The older wizard looked Harry over, assessing. "Good to know," he finally replied. "Now, get going."


	36. Two Steps Forward

Sunday morning was quiet. Most of the families had gone home, leaving only a few to visit with their children, to tour the castle, or stroll down the streets of Hogsmeade. Hermione's parents had been interested in the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey had agreed to an early breakfast including a short lecture on her job and standard wizarding wellness care. Most of the Weasleys would be dragged to Hogsmeade by Fred and George to see the space they were considering renting for their soon-to-be-realized joke shop as soon as Ron and the rest had stuffed their faces.

Harry welcomed the time apart from his friends. Yesterday had given him a new perspective on this new life of his – and had renewed his eagerness to spend time in the lab. He hadn't returned to his fifth year to relive his school days or become a voyeur on his friends' teenage romances. He'd returned to defeat Voldemort and complete his work – to help people. Maybe talking with Ron and Hermione and Neville and Ginny had helped them put their efforts against Voldemort into perspective but pretending nothing had changed was not going to work in the long run. It was time for Harry to stand up, to step away. The oath he'd taken as Severus' apprentice was a step on that path. Today, Harry would make sure his feet were carrying him further, not turning back.

Thankfully, Aberforth had been right – Dumbledore had been too busy to note his or Severus' return to Hogwarts. Waking this morning, Harry had another happy revelation: his Occlumency shields were stronger. His mind was more settled, calm. No more turbulent emotional storms, no more lingering dread or interfering memories of his former losses. He made a quick check of his memories – yes, all intact - but the trip to Gringotts, his acceptance as an adult by the goblins, and the beginning of negotiations for a new home had accomplished more than he'd believed possible. Harry hoped Severus was enjoying some of the same internal serenity that he was.

Last night, when they'd returned, he'd asked Severus for one more favor. Happily, his new Potions' Master had complied willingly, and Harry had the chance to put one of his ideas into motion already. It had helped him sleep much more peacefully last night.

Waking early, Harry had dressed in his hastily re-sized and cleansed casual clothes and slipped down to the Common Room, text books, parchment, and schedule in hand. This was the last day he'd have time to himself for quite a while. Tomorrow, he'd be swept up in classes and homework. Quidditch practice. He'd be expected to visit Hagrid and hear about his adventures with the giants. Sirius, still in the castle according to Marauder's Map Harry had glanced at last night, wouldn't be able to leave without rehashing their emotional confrontation. Now that Harry's internal wards were in better shape, he hoped a calm, honest conversation with his godfather would result in something better than hurt feelings and ultimatums.

Harry took a deep breath, eyes closed. Tomorrow, Lucius Malfoy's trial would begin before the Wizengamot. 

_"One step at a time, Master Potter."_

Perenelle Flamel's advice was more appropriate than ever.

His Hogwarts schedule laid out in front of him, Harry began making changes. He wrote letters. Finished a week's worth of assignments. An hour and a half later found him in the Owlery, making his first overtures to Hedwig in this time-frame. Thankfully, she was as extraordinary an owl as he'd remembered her to be, and, with a sharp nip of his fingers, was pleased to carry several messages. He watched her brilliant white wings catch the air over the Black Lake, gleaming in the watery morning sun. Harry's heart thumped, loud and strong and he blinked back tears. Hedwig. One small reminder that this new life was worth the confusion, the frustration – a few months of classes at Hogwarts was indeed a small price to pay.

Harry turned away, blowing on his chilled fingers. One more stop before breakfast.

"That's more like it," Harry laughed when he stepped into the hospital wing and laid eyes on Remus, sitting up in bed, frowning over The Daily Prophet.

"Harry!" The newspaper forgotten in his lap, Remus turned his bright gaze towards him.

Remus' smile was _everything_. Life. Health. Happiness. Harry rushed forward and hugged the wizard tightly. 

"Sorry, sorry," he tried to back off, but Remus was holding on.

"Never be sorry, Harry. Not for this." With one more awkward squeeze, Remus let Harry go far enough to sit in the chair pulled up beside his bed. "You'd be surprised how few bone-crushing hugs I've gotten lately."

Harry shook his head. "Well, I don’t want to stunt your recovery, but maybe you should expect a few more while you're here."

"'When I least expect them,' you mean?" Remus leaned back against his mound of pillows, even the slight movements leaving him a little breathless. "I shall steel myself."

"'Constant vigilance!'" Harry commanded in a passable mockery of Mad-eye Moody.

Left hand pressed to his chest, Remus choked down a laugh. "Ow."

Harry leaned forward to set a hand on top of Remus' right that laid flat on his bed. He didn't need his wand to run through a cursory diagnostic of the wizard's current health. Remus would need another Blood Replenishing Potion in about an hour, but the worst of the damage to his internal organs had been treated. The shock Remus had experienced would take its toll for some time – a few weeks at least – but his heart was beating strongly, and the fluid in his lungs receding. That was something the healers would need to keep an eye on. Too much bed-rest versus doing too much, too soon.

Harry's amusement dropped away. "You scared me, Remus. You and Sirius appearing like that, bloody and torn."

"Scared myself," Remus admitted, his gaze falling to his trembling hands.

"Honestly." Harry cleared his throat and began again, grateful for the strength of his internal wards. "Honestly, Remus. I understand how important it is to you for Greyback to be caught. How personal it is. But, just you and Sirius?"

Remus sighed and met Harry's concerned gaze. "I wish I could explain the thought-process behind our decision. But, when Shacklebolt dropped the news that Greyback had been seen in Edinburgh, we just … acted."

"You were at the ministry? You and Sirius?"

"Dumbledore Floo-called us at Grimmauld Place before the first announcement about Voldemort's death. He wanted the Order of the Phoenix members to be the first to know. Especially Sirius." Remus smiled. "He sent along a parchment detailing the real story about Pettigrew, about his betrayal and Sirius' innocence, and Sirius' official acquittal under his seal as Grand Mugwump of the Wizengamot. Told us he'd already sent one to the ministry, along with three memory strands – one of his own memories and two of Professor Snape's – that would serve as proper testimony to Sirius' innocence. We headed to the ministry as soon as we received word that Fudge was at Hogwarts and Kingsley was waiting for us."

Sirius would not have been able to help himself, Harry thought. Being freed from his exile at his hated childhood home, exonerated, his best friend at his side, of course he jumped at the chance to fight. To chase after the first Death Eater that was mentioned.

"He told me, you know." Remus interrupted Harry's thoughts. "Told me about your conversation after I woke up."

Harry dragged a hand across his forehead. "Neither of our best moments," he admitted.

"Stress will do that." Remus' voice didn't hold an ounce of reproof. "He's up with Dumbledore right now. But, really," Remus grunted, shifting his weight on the bed, "you two should talk."

"I plan on it," said Harry. "But, I have something else to talk to you about, if you feel up to it."

Remus' forehead creased. "Of course."

Harry folded his hands in his lap. "I've made some decisions, Remus. Decisions that Sirius is not going to like. You may not be too fond of them, either, I guess. But, for now, I hope you'll support me."

When Remus tried to sit up straighter, Harry reached forward, urging him back against his pillows.

"Please. Can you – can you just listen? Without reacting?"

Remus blew out a breath. "I can promise to try." His eyes narrowed. "Somehow I think you might be using this conversation as a dress rehearsal to approaching Sirius."

Harry chuckled. "Maybe. A bit. But it's about you, too. Outside of Sirius' and my relationship, I care about you, too, you know."

"I do know that," Remus said, his voice quiet but charged with emotion. "And I hope you know I feel the same way."

"Voldemort is dead," Harry said. "He's gone. And, while his influence is still in the world, I have faith that Dumbledore and the ministry – as well as the international wizarding community – are taking steps to heal our world. I've had one goal, Remus. Just one, since I learned that I was a wizard, since I was eleven years old. To survive. To survive long enough to prove all of the faith you all put in me. To confront Voldemort. To kill him. School, friends, surviving the Dursleys, everything was meant to smooth that pathway, to give me the tools I needed to fulfill a prophecy made before I was born."

Remus' frown had grown deeper, but he was silent, listening.

"Now," Harry raised his hands and then let them fall into his lap. "Now, for the first time, I'm my own man. No longer the child who bears a scar that marks him as a hero. No longer a tool, a weapon, aimed for the heart of my enemy. Now, the purpose for all of my studies doesn't exist. The reason for my rotten life at the Dursleys is gone. My hatred for Draco and the Slytherins – and for Professor Snape – has vanished. Dumbledore's careful shaping of my skills, the crumbs of information he scattered for me to find? None of that is important – and neither am I. Not to him. Not to the future he's building. " Harry leaned forward. "Do you understand? Do you see that I want – I need to make some changes in my life? That I need to make my own decisions and that I can't – I won't – wait until I'm seventeen to make them?"

"Yes. Yes, I do see that, Harry. But -"

"But you don't want me to act rashly, or to ignore everything I have or am, all that's gotten me to this point in my life."

Remus nodded.

"I've talked with my friends. With Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape. Yesterday, I went to Gringotts and took stock of my situation. Discussed my options, thought about my goals – my new goals – what I wanted to focus on in the future. And I came up with a plan. A plan that, I hope, you'll support." Harry paused. "And if you don't, I hope you will allow me to go forward anyway, trusting that, after everything that's happened, I might know my own mind."

"You sound so grown up."

Sirius' voice floated over Harry's shoulder. His boots rang against the stone floor as he walked from the doorway behind Harry to take the seat on the other side of Remus' bed.

Harry took a deep breath and met his godfather's solemn gaze. "I'm sorry for our argument the other day."

"So am I." Sirius nodded. "I'm especially sorry for bringing up your mum and dad the way I did. I've –" he glanced at Remus and then back at Harry. "You aren't the first person to mention that I get a bit carried away sometimes. Or that," his mouth quirked up in a sardonic half-smile, "I might need some help with impulse control."

Harry felt a weight lift from his spirit. "I've heard that before myself."

Sirius lifted one hand. "Please. Will you tell us about your plans?"

Harry considered his next words carefully. "You realize that they won't let me live with you."

Remus glanced back and forth, as if watching a particularly desperate tennis match. "I told you that, Sirius."

"Yes. And I finally listened – to Dumbledore, this morning. It seems Madam Pomfrey ran a few more diagnostic tests than I expected Friday night. Her report is … telling." He tapped himself on the forehead. "There's quite a bit of damage."

"No surprise there," Remus drawled.

"After twelve years in Azkaban? No, I'm not at all surprised," Harry continued. "The goblins told me about the, er, mental health provisions of becoming a legal guardian."

Sirius tilted his head, regarding Harry closely. "You had your doubts before that, though, didn't you? Friday night, you said so. Said I needed healing. I argued, of course. Said a lot of stupid things about your destiny and fighting evil. Didn't really hear what you were saying until you'd locked me into that body-bind and left me behind a Muffliato spell." His eyebrows twitched upward. "I had quite a lot of time to think that night."

Harry felt the heat rush to his cheeks.

"Don't apologize. I deserved every bit of it." Sirius put both hands on his knees, as if bracing himself. "To answer your question, yes, I realize that I cannot become your legal guardian. And I'm happy to find you moving forward, making plans to get out from under Petunia and her great hippo of a husband. The way you described your life, though, well, it has convinced me of something. Something I never thought I'd admit."

Harry clenched his teeth, but Sirius wasn’t finished.

"Harry. I don't want you to feel like all you're good for – all you've ever been good for – was to step into the forefront of this battle. To stand before Voldemort and take hit after hit until he either broke you or you rose up and destroyed him." Sirius' lips were a tight, white line. "Do you know who described you that way? Who accused Dumbledore of making you into his good little soldier of the light? Severus Snape did, at the last meeting of the Order. I disagreed, of course. If Snape said something, I always disagreed with him. But, I'm beginning to realize that he was right. And that's a horrible thing to consider."

"I've chosen Professor Snape to be my guardian. And he's agreed. He's also agreed," Harry rushed on, "to take me on as his apprentice."

The silence that greeted him was dense, filled with unspoken denials and furious mental cries of alarm. Sirius held his gaze for long moments, possible replies almost visible as they twisted behind his eyes. 

"That's – unexpected."

Sirius snorted at Remus' response. And then laughed. He laughed long and hard, wiping at his eyes. "Oh, Moony," he finally was able to reply, "you have always had a way with understatement."

Harry waited out the men's reactions. He was prepared to explain his decision – to talk through the objections. To hear that Severus would be harsh, unforgiving, to any apprentice, especially so to James Potter's son. To listen to a list of people better suited to being loving and caring guardians – the Weasleys, Neville's grandmother, any number of wizarding families willing to jump at the chance. His Occlumency wards secure, he knew he could wade through Sirius' rehashing of childhood hatred, or his revelation that it had been Severus who had betrayed the prophecy to Voldemort and sealed his parents' deaths.

He wasn't prepared for what Sirius said next.

"Severus Snape is a powerful wizard. And, if you see your future in potion-making, or alchemy, or spell-creation, he would be a logical choice of Master. Apparently, he's seen your life, your everyday struggles here at school and your far-too-horrendous-for-your-age trials at the hands of Voldemort more clearly than many of us. Certainly, more clearly than I have." Sirius swallowed with a grimace. "I – you're right, I have some healing to do. Dumbledore and Kingsley have been adamant. I'm off to St. Mungo's this afternoon for a consultation." He looked down at Remus. "I'm afraid I won't be able to play nursemaid after all. I'm likely to be 'working on my own recovery' for quite some time." The air-quotes were almost visible behind Sirius' words.

"Yes, the headmaster was quite … firm this morning," Sirius continued. "I've seen some of what Snape endured as Dumbledore's spy – just a few minutes ago, in fact. The headmaster insisted that I join him in his Pensieve. To see the, the horrible tortures that Voldemort expected his Death Eaters to line up for, to practically thank him for." Sirius' pale skin bore more than a tinge of green. "And Remus probably told you that it was Snape's memories that sealed my unconditional acquittal. He and I will never be friends, Harry. But, if it's what you want, what you truly want, I will do my part to support you." He nodded sharply. "On one condition."

All but speechless, Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could respond. "What condition?"

"That - when you can, when I'm well and he agrees - that I'll get to spend time with you. To spoil you. Tell you stories about your parents and race you on that broom of yours." Tears appeared in Sirius' eyes. "That I can begin to make up the time I've lost – not just in Azkaban, but in my single-minded desire for vengeance. That I can learn just who this Harry Potter is who sits before me. Not James' son. Not a godson. A boy becoming a man. His own man. Fighting evil however he can with whatever tools the gods and his own formidable skills have given him."

"And," Sirius interrupted before Harry could agree, "that you'll be patient. Because," head shaking back and forth, Sirius managed a watery chuckle, "I'll likely stumble, you know. Call him 'Snivellus,' or rant about how your dad would never do this or that."

"'Stumble,'" Remus echoed. "You're going to fall flat on your face, and more than once."

Harry rose and met Sirius halfway around the end of Remus' bed. "Thank you. I will. I promise." Hands clasped like the two adults they were, Harry pulled Sirius in closer and found himself embraced just as strongly. "Sirius," he murmured, his child-within trembling, crying, so very, very grateful. "Sirius." It was all he could say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are all so inspiring! Thank you, thank you, thank you!


	37. One Step Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who guessed the name of this chapter? 100 points to your Hogwarts House!

Harry's heart was lighter than it had been in days as he hurried down the stairs to a late breakfast. Remus was on the road to recovery. Andromeda Tonks' answer to his owl had arrived in time for Harry to put the idea to the man. Since her estrangement from the Black family – and her two dark sisters – Andromeda had been a devoted member of the Order of the Phoenix. With her husband, Ted, she had opened her large secluded home to wizards and witches in need of convalescence or protection from bitter rivals, those fleeing blood feuds, and others seeking asylum. Ted had died in Harry's timeline, died defending wizards from a group of Snatchers, and Andromeda had made a name for herself for following in his footsteps - defending others. Her acceptance of those shoved to the edges of society – the alienated, the neglected, the abused – had inspired her to take her surviving sister, Narcissa, into her home after Lucius' execution and Draco's imprisonment. The extraordinary widow's heart was as big as the cosmos, and she had power and intelligence to match.

She'd raised Tonks' and Remus' son in that atmosphere of kindness – not the sort of bland compassion many offered, but kindness with a foundation of strength. It was a stern gentleness, expecting the best from those who came under her wing and demanding that they move forward in life so that, someday, they could reach out and help others. Not only would Remus find a safe, serene place to recover from his injuries with the Tonks, but, with his mind and magical resources, he could be a big help to Andromeda and her healers. Harry chuckled – he'd like that idea. It would suit Remus much better than racing after murderers and other desperate criminals. And if the Tonks' daughter frequently visited, well, that would be a lovely coincidence.

Sirius had changed – seemingly overnight. Maybe it was being away from that dark, dank mausoleum of a house, being released from his second imprisonment, his hands tied, forced to listen to news of other wizards fighting the fight he believed was his own. Absolved of all blame for Pettigrew's death, for the rat's betrayal, with Pettigrew himself in Auror custody to bring the reality home, the relief must have hit Sirius like a rampaging herd of centaurs. Tearing off after Greyback had probably seemed like a way to show everyone that Sirius was alive – alive and powerful and useful to the Order.

Maybe Sirius' spirit had already done some healing under Poppy's watchful eye and skilled hand while lying in the Hogwarts' hospital wing. Harry stopped, one foot above the last tread of the staircase. Could the truth-wards of Hogwarts have worked on Sirius' mindset? Dumbledore couldn't have foreseen Sirius' presence here, could he? Harry's mind turned over images and scenarios. Of course, he could. Once released, Sirius would have sought out Harry as soon as he remembered that he had a godson. Threads of reason tied together, piercing through Harry's original anger and bitterness towards the headmaster. Perhaps there had been more positive aspects to those wards than Harry had been willing to perceive; not only had Harry and Severus come to an understanding about their past, but Sirius Black, bitter, impulsive hater of anything that hinted of darkness, had admitted that Severus would make a good guardian for his godson.

However the miracle had happened, Harry admitted to himself that Dumbledore had quite a bit to do with it. Dumbledore had tapped his own memories as well as those he'd required from Severus to break through Sirius' stubborn resistance and allow him to see Severus as a powerful ally rather than a snarling adversary. Whatever had happened up in Dumbledore's office, Harry found himself grateful to the headmaster – and quite anxious to speak with him. To lay out the finalized strategies he'd put in place since yesterday, and to speak freely about their past – and their future. For once, Harry admitted to himself, true honesty between the headmaster and The Boy Who Lived was possible.

"All right, Harry?"

Neville's voice drew Harry back to the present moment and he hopped down the last few steps to the Entrance Hall. "Great, Neville, thanks. You heading into breakfast?"

Luna, standing at Neville's side just outside the Great Hall tilted her head at an angle, as if assessing Harry's claim. "We were waiting for you. Neville said you'd gotten an early start, but Professor McGonagall said she hadn't seen you."

Harry stepped to Neville's side and gestured towards the long, over-laden tables gleaming beneath a bright blue sky. Neville's gran and Luna's father had traveled back home Saturday night, Neville explained. Augusta Longbottom was a formidable witch, and a confidant and advisor of Kingsley Shacklebolt. Between the two, the scourging of the ministry of Death Eaters and other dark wizards and witches had been swift and clean. Right now, with Fudge's position as Minister for Magic wobbly at best, she was needed in London to meet with various interested factions and restore the original checks and balances that Fudge and his cronies had dismantled. No matter who took over the job of minister, he or she would no longer be surrounded by yes-men and low-brained minions but would work with a parliamentary board that would have the final say over new legislations – and the ways they were enforced.

Luna was casual about her father's return home. Xenophilius Lovegood had a paper to publish. Summoned by Dumbledore to report on Voldemort's death and the changes in Hogwarts and the wizarding world, he'd been away from home for nearly a week, and, Luna said while spreading jam on her toast, that itself was remarkable. The Quibbler was her father's passion and was published with little capital and a tiny staff, with him overseeing every aspect from subscriptions to magical typesetting and he was anxious to return. Telling the world about Voldemort's defeat was one thing, Luna explained, but there were countless other important revelations that the mainstream wizarding newspapers were missing. Like the abundance of Man-eating Warferturtles in Loch Ness now that Nessie had abandoned her post to become a television presenter. And the alarming blight on the new crop of dirigible plums because of falling ash from the country-wide celebratory fireworks.

During breakfast, Harry received four communications. One knowing nod from Severus told him that his new Master's Occlumency shields had also been strengthened. An owl from the Real Estate Agency of Onnield and Ballard brought him a set of documents laying out steps the agents had already taken to begin the vetting process for the Flamel house and what Harry and Severus were required to do within the next few days to finish the process. Harry ordered the owl to take the packet to his dorm - out of the way of juice drops or robe sleeves dragged through bits of jam. Another bird arrived just before the three rose from their seats. This was not an unobtrusive owl, but Fawkes himself, gaudy and bright, appearing in a flash of fire that drew every eye to Harry and his friends. The slim parchment the phoenix dropped in Harry's outstretched hand contained few words. It was more a summons than a note. Dumbledore wanted to see him and would expect Harry in his office at two o'clock.

Harry straightened his back. Perhaps great minds really did think alike. He stared for far too long at the few words scratched onto the slip of parchment. His subconscious mind had been working on the puzzle of Dumbledore. Of his words and wards, the actions he'd taken in Harry's original timeline and those he'd left to those who came after him. Albus Dumbledore was the most complex man Harry had ever encountered. Last night, in Aberforth's sitting room, Harry had begun to sift through the man's layers. Today, with his mind returned to its disciplined state, Harry was as eager for a meeting as the headmaster.

"I'll be there, Fawkes," Harry answered. The bird fluttered in a dizzying spiral, cried out, once, and disappeared.

As he followed Neville towards the door, a bony shoulder knocked into Harry's side, pushing him sideways and into the corner beyond the Gryffindor table. A strong hand gripped Harry's shirt, keeping him from moving back into the light. The voice that hissed in his ear offered the fourth and last communication – it shouldn't have been a surprise.

"We need to talk, Potter. Seems like as good a time as any, wouldn't you agree?" 

Harry braced himself against the wall, not anxious to feel the rough stone scrape against the skin of his cheek. "Draco –"

The other boy leaned on Harry's back, his mouth practically against Harry's cheek. "My father's trial begins tomorrow. But I'm sure you already know that, don't you? You're probably the star witness against him, aren't you? You promised to explain what you have to do with it. And, wards or no, I'm going to make sure you keep that promise."

"Here, let him go, Malfoy."

Released suddenly, Harry managed not to fall backwards. He turned to see Neville, both hands out and empty, facing a red-faced Draco, wand clutched in one hand. Thankfully, Draco wasn't pointing it at Neville – it was pointed down, his hand at his side.

"It's all right, Neville. Draco and I have a few things to talk about."

"I've seen the way 'Draco' talks." Neville's gaze flicked between Harry and the Slytherin, his expression anxious. "He and his goons have 'talked' to me plenty of times."

"But, everything's changed now, Neville," Luna said. "Can't you see?" Her smile was as innocent as ever. "Draco could use a few friends, I think. A few people he can trust." She curled her fingers around Neville's wrist, her touch draining some of the tension from Neville's muscles. "He's never really had that; not like we have. I don't think Slytherins are very good at trust, are they?"

Draco blinked, frowning at Luna, as if her words were spoken in Bulgarian.

"And Harry really doesn't mind. Do you, Harry?" Luna added.

"Not at all." Harry turned to the boy standing rigid beside him. "You don't mind if Luna and Neville walk with us, do you, Draco? It's just, I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea, and I don't think you want us to have this conversation in the middle of the Great Hall."

"Where do you think you and your friends are taking me, then?"

Harry sighed at Draco's upthrust chin and the way his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you want to talk, or not, Draco? Neville, Luna, and I know just the place. A safe place where we won't be interrupted. When we get there, you can decide whether or not you feel like coming in with me."

"Just you." Draco slid his wand back into his pocket. "I won't be airing my family problems in front of every Gryffindor in the castle."

"I'm not a Gryffindor," Luna piped up over her shoulder as she headed towards the stairs, dragging Neville with her. 

"No, you're a Lovegood." Draco's sneering tone implied that that was just as bad – if not worse.

"Hey!" Neville tried to turn back, to confront Draco again, but Luna's grip tightened, and she kept him moving.

"Don't be silly, Neville. I am a Lovegood, after all. That's rather obvious." Her eyes twinkled as the two reached the stairs. "Coming then?"

The walk to the Room of Requirement seemed to take hours. Draco kept up with Harry, just a few paces behind Neville and Luna, flicking a suspicious glance at Harry out of the corner of his eye every few steps. They passed a few other students, some alone, some in groups, but everyone looked twice at Harry Potter walking calmly at Draco Malfoy's side. Colin Creevey was the only one brave – or foolish – enough to skip up to Harry and question him.

"Harry! Where are you going? Is there going to be a fight? Can I come? I can help –"

"Colin," Harry put a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder. "Of course there's not going to be a fight. Didn't you hear Professor Dumbledore tell us about the wards? And, besides," he sent an encouraging smile in Draco's direction, "I have nothing to fight about with Draco. We're just looking for a quiet place to talk."

"Oh. That's okay, then." Colin pointed to Neville. "You've got DA friends to help you, anyway. Are we going to have a meeting soon? Because, I think I learned a lot. Your new classes are brilliant, but I liked learning –"

"Colin!" Luna's sharp tone got the boy's attention. "Are you supposed to be talking about this?"

Colin's eyes grew bigger in his pale face. "I'm sorry! I didn't – I usually can't, I mean I've never been able to say it out loud before!"

Interesting. Harry shook his head. "I don't think it matters anymore, keeping it a secret, I mean. But, please try to wait until you get the signal, Colin. I've got quite a bit to do right now, but we'll talk about it later, all right?"

Backing away, Colin nodded his head six or seven times, one hand clamped over his mouth. Harry snorted. "Neville, why don't you and Luna take Colin down to visit Hagrid? Tell him for me that I'll visit him later?"

"You sure?" Neville was still nervous, his mouth a grim line.

"That's a lovely idea," Luna said, already turning back the way they'd come. "Come on, Colin. You'll like Hagrid – he's always talking about things he shouldn't."

"Harry." Neville was frowning, his hand in his pocket. "I realize this is important to you, but, if you need me, well, I'll be waiting for your call."

How could … Harry stared at Neville's pocket. The charmed galleons, the ones Hermione had used the Proteus charm on to summon the DA to a meeting. Neville had his in his pocket. Harry's mind spun with ideas, with the plans he'd made, the way going forward. He knew he could modify the charm to summon only some of the DA, the leaders, those who could take messages to the members in their own houses. This afternoon would be the perfect time.

"Great idea, Neville. I'll, I'll make sure we get together soon."

"Okay, then. We'll be waiting."

Once the hallway had cleared, Harry led a silently fuming Draco around the last corner to stand in front of the blank stone wall. He needed a place to talk to Draco - a secure place, where they wouldn't be interrupted. Somewhere Draco might feel comfortable enough to look past their rivalry and really listen. Somehow, Harry had to reveal his truth to Draco, reveal it so that Draco would believe him, believe a story that seemed designed to make even his best friends suspicious. Frowning, Harry paced back and forth, mumbling under his breath, but the door refused to appear.

"Second thoughts, Potter? Or are you waiting for more of your friends to show up, so you can finally put me in my place? Teach me a lesson?"

Harry frowned, glancing back at Draco's cold grey eyes. "You don't want to go anywhere with me, do you? Regardless of the fact that you practically threw me into a wall a few minutes ago to get me to talk, you're afraid."

The Slytherin took a step away. "What? Of you?" He bared his teeth. "You wish."

"Draco, this isn't going to work if you can't at least trust me a little bit." The Room of Requirement was trying to accommodate both of their wishes. Harry wanted a place to share the truth – Draco was desperate not to be alone with him. "I'll be alone, too, you know."

"What possible reason could I have to trust you, Potter? I saw that spell you cast in the Entrance Hall on Friday night. I know you're an Animagus. You cast a nonverbal, wandless Accio in the Quidditch tent. Seems you've been pretending to be a useless, half-powered twat since first year, but those are powerful magics. What else can you do?" Draco's lips were white, hands fists at his sides. He didn't want to admit it, to say it out loud, that much was obvious. "Voldemort's dead, my father is about to be found guilty and executed in some mockery of a trial. Who's going to mourn black-hearted little Draco Malfoy if Sainted Potter decides to let his power loose on him? Reward the scum of wizarding society with everything he has coming to him?"

"I will, you idiot."

"Your word means nothing to me, Potter. Nothing," Draco flung back at him.

Harry closed his eyes. He should have asked Severus to join them. Draco might be less suspicious if the one wizard he trusted, the only one who had been on his side through all of this, had been standing beside him.

Stone grated, a hollow clang echoing in the deserted hallway. Harry opened his eyes to see a thick, sturdy metal door, rivets at the top and bottom. It was black and gleaming, the stones beside the frame smooth black rectangles. It looked like – 

"The Department of Mysteries," he murmured, laying one hand flat on the door's surface. It swung inward without a sound.

"Potter. I should have known."

Just inside stood Severus Snape, his expression pinched in frustration. He held a quill in one hand, a tiny drop of red ink suspended from its tip. The parchment clutched in the other was filled with cramped writing in black, much of it struck through or scribbled over with bold red letters. Some poor first year's Potions' assignment, Harry figured.

"I assume you 'required' my presence?"

Speechless, Harry shook his head. A sudden rustling of robes at his side told him Draco was tired of waiting for an explanation.

"Severus?" Draco's voice was high and tight.

"I see," Severus drawled, setting the quill and parchment down on a small table that coalesced into being at his side. "Well," he brushed his hands together, "I am flattered that the two of you are so desperate for my attention that the Room of Requirement dragged me here to wait upon you hand and foot."

"The –"

Harry could predict all of Draco's questions. Instead of waiting them out, he pressed the boy forward, beyond the doorway and into the room the castle's magic had designed for them – for them both, apparently. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Severus."

"I still don't –"

The black door clicked shut behind them and then disappeared back into the wall.


	38. What Is Required

Severus picked up the poor excuse for an essay, his pen poised to mark a "T" at the top of the page when a rush of magical energy surrounded him. Darkness enclosed him, hot and cold, with a glimmer of blue light appearing at the edge of his vision, as if he'd closed his eyes too tightly for too long. He could not move, could not reach for his wand, his thoughts flying to possible explanations and discarding each one. No Apparating within Hogwarts wards, no Summoning spells would likewise penetrate the boundaries. Perhaps a physical malady? A stroke? An aneurysm? No – this had the aroma of powerful magic.

Powerful magic brushed Severus' mind without outright intrusion, shuffled through, not his thoughts, but his emotions – his attitudes. Potter's face appeared for a moment and then Draco's. Severus felt a rippling of curiosity at the combination that gave way to concern. And then dread. The Dark Lord was gone, dead, he reminded himself, unable to send such a finessed spell his way to determine Severus' true loyalties and 'reward' him accordingly. His stomach knotting, Severus began to fight, drawing wandless, nonverbal spells to his mind, trying to break the hold on his body. Whatever was holding him had to do with Harry and Draco – his apprentice and his godson – and Severus would stand between them and danger, no matter what.

Less than a second later, Severus was released. The blue glow separated into single candles arranged around the slick black walls of the room where he found himself, pen and paper still in hand. It was a long, narrow room, lined with black tile, all color leached away. In the center, a device sat upon a table – gleaming silver, with tiny moving parts that clicked and hissed, steam rising in puffs from one long glass tube. Two – no, three chairs were grouped around it, and a wide blank chalkboard stood up front, as if a class was soon to be called to order.

A faint murmur of voices reached Severus' ear, a familiar sound that calmed the rapid beating of his heart. Students. A moment later, the tolling of Hogwarts' great bell vibrated through the room. Still at Hogwarts, then. That could only mean …

Lips pursed, Severus turned to watch the solid metal door appear in the center of the near wall. It opened inward, revealing the first of the two faces Severus now expected.

"Potter. I should have known. I assume you 'required' my presence?"

Mouth agape, Potter shook his head. A moment later, Draco appeared at his apprentice's side, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

"Severus?" Draco's voice was high and tight.

"I see," Severus drawled, setting the quill and parchment down on a small table that coalesced into being at his side. "Well," he brushed his hands together, "I am flattered that the two of you were so desperate for my attention that the Room of Requirement dragged me here to wait upon you hand and foot."

"The –"

Draco may have heard of the room from others, but he clearly did not understand its significance. Potter, however, was unaffected – he knew it well. The knut dropped and Severus realized just where Potter had conducted his illicit Defense Club this year.

Interrupting Draco's no-doubt many questions, Potter nodded. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, Severus."

"I still don't –"

Draco stumbled towards Severus with a rough push from Potter's hands. The boy entered right behind, and the door closed behind him with a muted click before disappearing back into the wall.

"Perhaps the next time you two decide to have a private conversation pertaining to a difficult topic, you could foresee the need for my … reassuring presence and contact me ahead of time?" Severus folded his arms over his chest.

"I don't need you to reassure me about being alone with Potter." Draco tugged his robes straight, spinning to glare at Potter as if betrayed.

Potter remained nonplussed. "Clearly, you do. Or the Room of Requirement wouldn't have responded the way it did. I'm sure you've heard of it. You know how it works?"

"Of course I've heard of it! My father –" Draco caught himself and closed his mouth with a click of teeth.

The tableau awaiting them seemed to catch Potter's eye and he drifted towards the comfortable chairs and the device on the center table. "The Room of Requirement was created when the castle was built – not purposefully by any of the builders. In fact, no one knew it existed at all until a troubled first year, who faced a family tragedy at home and bullying here at school walked past this blank section of hallway with a fervent wish to disappear." He brushed one hand along a curve of the silver device, an absent smile playing across his face. "The boy found himself surrounded by all of his favorite things, safe and secure. The castle only released him when his mind had quieted and any thoughts of harming himself had fallen away."

"After that, many students – and staff – spoke of a room they'd found where they'd never seen one before. One that contained exactly what they needed at exactly the right time. A safe space. A practice laboratory. A tutor for a particular class." He chuckled. "As Ron once said, some found a bathroom just in the nick of time."

Severus listened, nodding along. The origin of the Room of Requirement was a mystery. He'd found the room for himself during his third year at Hogwarts, holding the discovery close to his chest and sharing it only with one other person. Lily Evans. She, however, seemed unable to access it. Possibly, Severus reasoned, because Lily never was quite as desperate or alone as Severus, and now Harry, had been.

"Oh, thank you, Professor Potter," Draco sneered. "Something else Dumbledore told you all about?"

Harry's smile grew wider. "Actually, Neville found it." He turned, one eyebrow raised. "It responds to particularly strong magical signatures, you know."

"Longbottom? Particularly strong magic? You must be joking."

"Not at all," Severus said, striding to his apprentice's side. "The Longbottoms, Neville, included, have always been known to be formidable witches and wizards. If you look past their abysmal acuity for potion making."

Wand in hand, Severus began to draw a defining spell across the silver device to access its secrets. Potter's hand darted out, catching his, to stop him.

"I know what it is. It's perfect, actually."

Eyebrows lifting, Severus peered down his nose at his apprentice. "Something you found in the Department of Mysteries, I assume?"

"That's where I first saw it when I was fifteen. I didn't know what it did, then – I was too busy running for my life from Lucius and his Death Eaters."

Draco stepped up to the table, his face screwed up in confusion. "'When you were fifteen.' What's that supposed to mean?"

Severus exchanged a glance with Potter and moved to Draco's side. Obviously, his godson was more in need of Severus' aid than his apprentice. "You are determined to get Mister Potter's explanation, are you not? And he suggested this location for your meeting – your private meeting?"

"I wasn't going to let myself get trapped with him. Anyone could have been behind that door," Draco muttered fiercely. 

"And, since you both have significant magical energy, the Room of Requirement sensed both of your needs equally, and it sought to resolve the two by summoning me. Someone you both would trust."

Draco peered at Potter's bland expression. "You suddenly trust Severus Snape. That's a laugh."

Severus found himself holding tight to Draco's shoulders and ushering him to the chair on the left side of the apparatus. "Yes, Draco. That is exactly the case. And, if you will put aside your anger and pride – as well as your fear –" he held on when Draco flinched from the implication, "Mister Potter will explain everything to you."

"I'm sure." Draco dropped into the chair and the arms with both hands. "And since you're obviously vouching for him, I'm supposed to believe every word he says."

"Mister Malfoy." Severus allowed his annoyance to coat his words with ice. "Use the brain you were born with, please. You above everyone else have noticed the interference of the headmaster's infernal truth wards on every word spoken in this castle. It is difficult for me to speak an outright lie. Imagine the chance Potter has against them." He didn't apologize for the apparent insult. It was Draco who was in the most need right now, his mind still spinning from the revelations of a few days ago and his release from his father's oaths. Potter would get over it.

Potter waited, standing in front of the strange device, feet wide and hands behind his back – every inch a teacher waiting for his class to assemble. Severus lowered himself into the chair on Draco's left and angled it so that he could keep an eye on his godson's expression.

"Are you ready to listen?" 

Draco remained silent long enough for Severus to grow irritated. Finally, the boy nodded and crossed his arms, slamming backwards so that he slouched in the chair. "Fine. Go ahead."

"We both know," Potter began, "that you aren't likely to believe much of what I tell you. It doesn't matter if Dumbledore's wards are strong or not. So, the Room of Requirement has given us both what we need." He hesitated. "I want to explain how I know about the Malfoy family history. In fact, the more I think about it, the more anxious I am for you to know the truth." A slight frown ridged his forehead as he stared into Draco's eyes. "We're a lot alike, you and I."

Severus placed a restraining hand on Draco's arm before he could shoot to his feet and deny Potter's claim. "We are _not_ -"

"When you were a baby, your father and grandfather planned out your life – they subjected you to rituals that twisted your soul. They stole your choices, just as others stole mine. Voldemort. Dumbledore." Potter touched the scar on his forehead. "Your scars are invisible, but they mark you just the same."

"No. Stop. You don't –" Draco was mumbling desperate denials, the truth-wards stealing his stubborn insistence, turning what would have been angry shouts into subvocal whines.

"It was abuse, Draco, and I'm sorry that no one stepped in. No one saved you from it." Potter continued, his voice low but insistent. "Believe me when I tell you that I know it when I see it. And I know just how impossible it is to admit it, especially to someone like me."

Draco pressed himself back in the chair as if he could escape through it. Severus bit his tongue, wanting to rail at Potter, to force him to stop, but, this is what Draco asked for. This is what he required – an explanation. The truth. There was more compassion in Potter's words than Severus would have believed possible a few weeks ago. He would have to trust the boy – the wizard – and the castle's magic not to overwhelm Draco with too much too fast.

"Draco, do you want to know what I'm most sorry for?"

Head shaking back in forth, Draco closed his eyes and turned away.

"I'm sorry that the people around us chose us to be enemies, before we'd ever met."

He watched Draco pull himself together, inch by inch. Watched the youth even out his breathing, smooth the crumpled muscles of his face, and blink away his tears. A vivid flashback sent Severus to a memory Potter had shared with him at Gringotts - to a humid bathroom at the end of Potter's sixth year, where a thin, trembling Draco wept, unable to face himself the mirror. This time, Potter was not tempted to throw out a deadly spell, to hurt the other boy. This time, all Potter wanted was to reach Draco, to open a small slit in the armor he'd wrapped around himself - not so that he could wound, so that he could offer healing. Or, at least, friendship.

"You're lucky, Potter," Draco began, his voice still shaking. "You never had to confront your enemy, did you? Not since you were a baby and didn't know what you were doing. Now, Voldemort's dead and you, you're free. While I," Draco punched himself in the chest, "I had to face my tormentor every day. I had to live with him. Obey him." The words were hissed between Draco's teeth. "Call him father."

It was Severus' turn to close his eyes in pain.

A brush of air across his skin urged him to reopen them a moment later. Potter knelt before Draco, pale but determined. "I did face him, Draco. I killed Voldemort. Me, Harry Potter. But not the confused, frightened, desperate boy you knew. I was no more able to stand before him, to better one of the most powerful wizards of this age, than you were to stand up to your father." His expression earnest, Potter seemed to beg Draco to understand – to believe him. "I had to wait years before I was ready. Thirty years. I returned from the future to do it."

"Yes, in my original timeline, I succeeded – eventually. In my original life, I destroyed Voldemort when I was seventeen, but," Potter took a breath to steady himself, "so many died. So many. Innocent people. Friends. Family. Children still at school were forced to fight a war none of them were prepared for. And they died because I had to fumble around for my answers, for a weapon, for anything that would help me, an impulsive, reckless, thick-headed Gryffindor defeat the Dark Lord. So, when I was given the option – the _choice_ \- to come back and change it all, I leaped at it. And, here I am."

Draco jaw clenched and unclenched as if he was chewing on Potter explanation. Chewing on it and finding it bitter and tasteless.

"You think I'm going to believe this fairy tale?" Draco lunged forward, his face inches from Potter's. "That you're, what, forty-five, inhabiting Potter's body? You came back in time to kill Voldemort and turn the world into some fantasy vision of yours? Where my – where Lucius has his comeuppance and I'm somehow turned into one of your bootlicking minions because I'm just oh, so grateful?"

"Draco –" Severus began.

"No," the boy brushed off Severus' hand, barely glancing at him. "Do not tell me that you believe this nonsense. I'll message St. Mungo's right now because you're clearly off your rocker. What the hell did you do to him, Potter? Obliviate? Did you use some Memory Charm Granger dug out of a library book?" Hands gripping the arms of his chair until his fingers turned white, Draco sneered. "Oh, no, this is just you trying to convince the world that our little scarred Saviour did his job, isn't it? No one's looking at you now, are they? No one's hurrying to your side, to support every word you say or give points to Gryffindor for simply existing." His eyes narrowed. "You miss it, don't you? The fame? The glory?"

Severus made an impatient noise in his throat, but Potter lifted a hand to silence him before he could speak.

"I could explain further –"

"I bet you could – maybe it's your brain that's damaged. Maybe you actually believe this rubbish yourself."

"Draco," Severus snapped. "Enough."

"Don't bother, Severus." Potter stood, interrupting. He did not seem offended or impatient, instead, his smile was resolved. Determined. "Neither Draco nor I thought he'd believe a simple explanation."

"Simple," Severus heard Draco mumble as he slumped back in his chair.

Severus rose to face Potter. "If you did not believe you could reason with him, and he was determined to suspect anything you said, then why are we here?"

"We are here, Severus, to reveal truth. Draco cannot be allowed to rebuild his life on a foundation of lies, of misunderstandings. Of assumptions." Potter's expression seemed carved in stone. "Only the truth can set him free."

A storm lurked behind Potter's green eyes, deep and impenetrable. Severus' back snapped straight, his arguments dying away. He caught a glimpse of the adult wizard behind that young boy's face, the powerful magics straining to free themselves from a fifteen-year-old mind. Potter's discipline had returned dramatically, and with the solemn determination came a fierce intelligence. This boy – this man – had seen more than Severus Snape. He was older, wiser – with a heart filled with kindness rather than petty, vicious childhood grudges. Potter had witnessed torture and fear and pain, had sought answers and delved deeply into tangled family histories. He'd lost family, friends, and lovers. After all that, he'd set his mind to healing and bargained with Death to save them. And, ultimately, he'd returned here, to this moment. To a dark room where he sought nothing else but to help Draco Malfoy – his childhood enemy.

"Something has changed," Severus noted aloud. "The wards –"

"Dumbledore's wards, yes." Potter nodded. "Finally, I understand. Oh, he's a clever one," Potter's smile flashed on and off. "Without the truth, none of us can properly heal our pasts, can we? Not you, not me, not Sirius – and not Draco."

The wizard moved past Severus and stepped up to the device still humming and ticking on the table. "In the Department of Mysteries, there is a room referred to as the Brain Room. Inside, you'll find living brains that have been harvested from the deepest trenches of the sea. Instead of nerves, or spinal cords, they are surrounded by tentacles that can, if they touch a wizard, draw thoughts and memories from their minds. It's a terrible, painful process and can turn a wizard into a vegetable within a few minutes."

This," Potter pointed, "is a mechanical duplicate, created by Augustus Rockwood for Voldemort. Rockwood was a spy within the Department of Mysteries during the first wizarding war. He was a brilliant man who hid his true allegiance for years while he stole secrets and diverted the ministry into questionable research. When Voldemort was broken in my family's home in Godric's Hollow," Potter's gaze grew distant for a moment, "and Rockwood was revealed, the Keeper of Mysteries, Simone Bode, reengineered the device. She removed its ability to cause pain, strengthened its safeguards, and turned it into a powerful tool. It's called the Framework of Reference, referred to by Aurors as –"

" – the POV Machine. Short for Point of View." Severus stalked a circle around the device. "I have heard of it but have never seen it used."

"It is, in simple terms, a way for a group of people to access a wizard or witch's thoughts without the use of Legilimency. Not only to observe facts, but to understand a wizard's attitude towards those facts." Potter met Severus' eyes. "It was used indiscriminately by the Ministry during the trials after the war. It was considered the merciful thing to do."

Severus' lips thinned. He did not appreciate the implications.

"The Room of Requirement recognized Draco's distrust and my own desire for him to understand and provided what we both needed. A way to share my thoughts and memories that would satisfy us both."

"The only drawback," Potter continued after a deep breath, "is that, while there is no longer any physical pain, the wizard whose mind is accessed lives his memories as they unfold – each twinge of emotion, every grief, the joy of remembered happiness and the horror of every loss."


	39. Make New Friends but Keep the Old

Severus sat quietly, one hand hovering over the machine's dial, holding Potter's steady gaze as he steeled himself to experience the wizard's memories once again. It would not be easy – for any of them. Not for Draco as the thin façade of his life as heir to the Malfoy legacy was stripped away to its rotten core. Not for Potter, living through the losses, the fear, the despair all over again for another's benefit. And certainly not for Severus. His connection with Potter as guardian and master made this sharing of memories, of thoughts and emotions, far deeper than before. And what Severus had already seen had nearly broken him.

As soon as both boys had donned the metal diadems, Potter nodded, expecting Severus to obey.

And, somehow, he did.

Severus turned the dial to three, then four, and upward to eight, increasing the power gradually as Potter directed him. Potter remained in complete control, if a bit distracted by the memories brought to his awareness. Draco, settling deeply into his chair, appeared as if asleep - Severus could see the boy's eyes moving behind his lids, his breathing speeding into short gasps, as if he was dreaming a powerful dream. As soon as the dial reached nine, chalk images appeared on the chalkboard, moving like an animated film. An animated film on fast-forward. 

Image after image appeared before Severus' widening eyes. Potter's fifth year unfolded quickly, scenes obviously picked specifically by the wizard for Draco's benefit. Each one revealed much more than facts and events. It was as if a wizard artist had painted them, each scene exposing the depth of Potter's emotions, revealing his sorrow over young Diggory's death, the pain and humiliation of Umbridge's torture and Dumbledore's rejection, and, finally, the gnawing guilt of Black's death at the ministry, Lucius' sneering face playing a major role. Beside Severus, Draco twitched, frowning, while Potter's stare grew less focused, his body moving in minute jerks as the memories moved him through his life.

The scenes moved on. When the soft sobs began, Severus turned the dial quickly to two. Potter surfaced immediately. "I'm all right," he insisted.

"You are experiencing sorrow, Potter."

"Well, you've just killed Dumbledore," he stated, rubbing tears from his cheeks. "Just because he's alive in this timeline, doesn't mean I don't still feel the grief."

Severus clenched his teeth and returned the dial to its original position.

The memories continued, their speed becoming too fast for Severus to follow easily on the chalkboard. Instead, he kept his attention moving between Potter's obvious distress and Draco's reactions. Draco's expression wavered between stunned, angry, and mournful, sweat lining his hairline and an occasional bleat of dismay finding its way from between his lips.

The animation grew stark – all slashing lines and hurried movements, and Severus turned the dial down a notch or two, as curious as Draco to see Potter's memories of his seventh year. Nagini attacked the boy in a crumbling house. Weasley gulped back sobs, covered in blood after splinching. The story of the Deathly Hallows unfolded in simple line drawings. Potter and his friends lived a life of dread and deprivation. Hopeless. Helpless.

These were different memories from the ones Potter had shared at Gringotts. These were a boy's memories of school. Friends. A child carrying the gross weight of the wizarding world's hopes and fears. These were memories a boy like Draco would understand.

A familiar building came into view and Severus' fingers moved to slow the device further. He heard Draco's quick gasp as he recognized his home, Malfoy Manor. Within, Voldemort reigned over the family seated at the table, his every taunt a painful shard shoved beneath already bruised skin. Lucius looked ill, Draco desperate, Narcissa grey with fear.

Scenes of torture unfolded. Granger screamed. Pettigrew was strangled by his own hand. Draco – Draco lied. Protected Potter. And then lost his wand to Potter in the ensuing skirmish. Potter and his friends escaped – and the house elf died. Huffs of breath came from Potter's throat, strangled sobs that made Severus' skin run cold.

Severus closed his eyes and moved the dial to sift through Potter's memories faster. The faster the better. The sooner this was finished …

Potter and his friends returned to Hogwarts to face Severus Snape, Death Eater and new Headmaster. To face Draco and the other children tied to the Dark Lord by their families. Slytherin students called for Potter's capture. Minerva gathered her power about her and drove Severus away.

Draco and his brainless minions attacked Potter in the Room of Requirement. A bare eye-blink later, Potter risked his life to save Draco as fire engulfed the room.

Potter met Draco Malfoy's eyes, sharing a moment of despair. Desperation. And Draco fled.

The battle raged, children and Order members died. In the Shrieking Shack, the Dark Lord waved one hand and carelessly ordered Severus' death. Severus and Draco flinched back as the snake struck him, once, twice, three times. Potter's trio approached just before Severus' death. He was no longer shocked to see the compassion in the boy's eyes as he retrieved Severus' memory.

Potter walked, alone, into the Forbidden Forest and was struck down by Voldemort's curse. The memories jumped ahead and Severus watched as Narcissa Malfoy leaned over the boy, asking after her son. And then stood up and lied to Voldemort's face.

Barely an hour later and Severus' hand had cramped, his chest tight as he forced himself to let the device do its job. To leave the dial alone. To ignore Potter's grief and Draco's murmurs of denial. He relived the Death Eaters' trials – Draco's dead eyes staring through him. Other children treated as the worst criminals. Sentenced to a long lifetime of imprisonment. Worse. Bitter wizards ordered Lucius' death and bound Narcissa's powers. Many familiar faces once hidden by Death-Eater masks followed. There was no mercy and very little justice.

Years later, an older Potter sought through dusty tomes and sneaked into foreign ministries to dig through their records. He met with countless historians, asking questions about Grindelwald, about the Malfoy patriarchs. He risked life and soul, his Animagus form allowing him past Azkaban's Dementors to speak with wizards and witches imprisoned there for decades to gain insight on the Malfoy family. Potter fought wraiths, dismantled curses, and, wearing his broken bones and scars as badges of victory, he found the truth. Finally, in a hidden chamber beneath the crumbled Malfoy mansion, he unearthed a ritual room. Fighting through its traps and hexes, blood on his face, his left arm useless at his side, Potter triumphed over the Malfoy's dark artifacts. His only prize was a blue jewel box that twitched and murmured dark promises into his thoughts day and night.

Potter's chin fell to his chest. One final image appeared - a potions lab. The final chalkboard drawing showed a devastated room, exploded cauldrons and shattered glass motionless in the air mid-disaster. Potter stood within the scene, confronting Death itself. The machine huffed and hummed to a halt, each part slowing until the only sound in the room was the panting breaths of the two teens.

Draco recovered first, lifting shaking hands to remove the diadem from his head. He stared at Potter, pain drawing lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth as if he'd aged thirty years in the space of an hour. Perhaps he had.

At length Draco spoke.

"Why?"

It was barely a whisper.

Severus knelt beside Potter's chair, lifting the diadem from the boy's head and laying one hand on Potter's wrist. His pulse was racing, his breathing ragged, and Severus conjured a thick blanket to wrap around his shoulders. 

Potter stirred himself to answer. "Why what?"

As Severus monitored the exhausted wizard, Draco dragged his chair closer. "Why would you do that? Go through all that? Why would you look into my family's past when we were finally out of your hair? Killed. Locked up. Why –" Draco choked, "why would you come here and put yourself through it all again just to – just to help me?"

Eyes still closed, chin on his chest, Severus saw Potter's smile. "You know why. You know it all now, Draco."

"You – you forgave me." 

Tears leaped to Severus' eyes at Draco's hushed tone.

"Of course."

"Even though I – I tried to kill Dumbledore. I let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. I hexed you, your friends. My father –"

Potter stirred beneath Severus' hands. He lifted weary eyes to Draco's. "That wasn't you. That was the boy you had been. Or would be, if nothing changed. The one still controlled by Lucius' oaths and Voldemort's evil." Familiar green eyes gleamed. "I can't wait to meet the new Draco Malfoy. I think – I think I'm going to like him."

Severus was not surprised that Draco was unable to respond. 

The forty-six-turned-fifteen-year-old-wizard collected himself, drawing the blanket close. "You see it now, don't you? How we're alike?" He lifted one shoulder. "How could I let you suffer when, with one small act I could give you some of the answers that might save you?"

"This was not a small act, Potter," Severus began.

The boy seemed to be recovering quickly. Severus eyebrows rose high as Potter actually reached out and patted him on the hand. Comforting him. 

Draco was peering into Potter's eyes, the icy film that could turn his godson's eyes into hard silver pools melting away. "After all that, you still think we're alike?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Potter answered. "When it was over – all over – I had to know. To know why. I had to understand the past so that I would be free to make a future for myself, to make my own choices, just like you, now." He sat straight and took a deep breath. "Coming back here was my choice. I hope," Potter nodded firmly, "I hope it was the right one."

Draco swallowed, blinking hard. "I – " he searched for words and found none. 

In his godson's place, Severus laid his hand against Potter's cheek. "It was, Harry. It was."

.. .. ..

The room had changed around Harry. Once Severus had been reassured that he was not going to collapse, fetching Harry yet another Pepper-Up potion and forcing a couple of unnecessary cups of tea down his throat, he'd gone off with Draco. To help the boy process this new information. Or, perhaps, to distract him with brewing while Harry's memories coalesced and took root in Draco's mind, forming new patterns of thought. 

It would be an interesting journey for the young man. Harry hoped Draco would allow him to tag along.

The black tiled walls of the Department of Mysteries had faded back to the grey stones of Hogwarts' castle. Harry's deep upholstered chair remained, but the POV Machine had disappeared, the tall table folding up into one just big enough for his cup of tea. The chalkboard had become a tall, glass notice-board, where lists and pictures were posted. Each one was a prick in Harry's memory. A list of DA members. A check-list of those who had mastered certain spells and hexes. Cedric Diggory's student photograph. A creased picture of the members of the Order of the Phoenix.

As Harry considered his next actions, the room sensed his changing needs and its outlines grew misty, forming and reforming as his thoughts fell into place. A conference table rose up from the floor, Harry's chair narrowing to accommodate his place in the center of one side. Six other chairs joined his, parchment and ink appearing in front of each. In the center, trays and plates filled themselves with lunch food, pitchers bubbled full of pumpkin juice, water, milk, and lemonade. The Room of Requirement did not grow into the large, well-stocked room the DA used for practice, but it made itself ready for a meeting of the DA's leaders.

A golden galleon appeared before Harry, spinning on its edge. He smiled and reached for it, rubbing it between his fingers. Holding it in one hand, he recited the necessary charms.

"Protea Lamnia. Venio Sodalis. Hermione. Ron. Neville. Luna. Ginny. Hannah." The coin grew warm in his hand, vibrating as the magic sought out its identical mates around the castle. Harry felt the connections as they snapped into place. When all six members had taken up their coins and begun their journey towards him, Harry set his down on the table and poured himself a glass of water.

His friends arrived quickly. Ron and Hermione and Neville and Luna together. Ron shared a long glance with Harry before throwing himself into the seat opposite him and tucking in to lunch. Luna chattered about Hagrid and his journey to seek out help against Voldemort from the giants. Happily, there was no mention of half-brothers being tied up in the Forbidden Forest. Neville looked over Harry sharply, as if to make sure Draco had left no marks. Hannah hesitated as she realized who was sitting around the table, frowning. But, after a moment, she took a seat at the end of the table on Harry's left.

Ginny was the last – hurrying towards the table as she stripped off her Quidditch gloves and swept her hair out of her face.

"Sorry. Fred and George – and Percy, can you believe it? – wanted to play one last game before classes started tomorrow." She met Harry's eye. "Just us? The twins wondered why they hadn't been invited." She smiled at Luna and threw herself into the chair at the end of the table on Harry's right.

Hannah had been frowning at the others, her bright eyes sparkling. "Oh." She seemed to find her voice. "You wanted a representative from each member house, is that why I'm here?"

"Exactly," Harry replied. "Plus the fact that you're fantastic at defensive spells, Hannah. And your mother sits on the Wizengamot. If anyone can help us with what I'm about to suggest, she can."

"What, Harry?" Hermione spoke up for all of them, as usual.

"I think," he began, "that even though Umbridge is gone, the DA should continue."

Relief dawned in the others' eyes. "I was hoping you'd say that, mate." Ron said, Neville nodding beside him.

"Good. Are we all agreed?" Hearing four yesses and a couple of absolutelys, Harry continued. "I'm going to meet with Professor Dumbledore later to make sure – to ask him to license the Defense Club to meet maybe every other week, here, in the Room of Requirement. To make it a sanctioned Hogwarts club, with bylaws and rules and a faculty advisor, just like the Gobstones Club or Flitwick's Charming Charms Society. Hermione – what do you think? Can you come up with some formal-sounding bylaws?"

She nodded quickly. "Of course. That should be no problem. I'm so happy that you're going to keep on, Harry. I was worried, with your new schedule and all –"

Her hurried words tapered off when Harry shook his head.

"That's just the thing. I'm not. I can't. I'm too busy, what with teaching some classes, and Animagus tutoring with McGonagall, and getting my new living arrangements all straightened out. I've – I've taken on rather a lot this year. But, I think you all, the leaders, should keep on. Elect a new teacher. Or take turns amongst yourselves and among the houses leading practices."

Before anyone else could interrupt with denials, Harry went on. "I'd suggest a few changes, right away. They're only suggestions, of course, but they might help Dumbledore agree to sanction us. For instance, there's no reason now not to include Slytherins. I've got a couple in mind right away."

"Malfoy, you mean," Neville said. "And the Greengrass girls."

"There are others. Others whose families never followed Voldemort." Luna smiled at each one around the table. "That's a good idea, Harry."

"To make it easier for the Slytherins to trust us, to believe we want them here for something other than practice dummies for our hexes –"

Ron guffawed, interrupting. "Now that's an idea."

" – I'd suggest asking someone neutral to be the faculty advisor. Not McGonagall or Dumbledore." Harry waited, hoping Hannah would come up with the perfect name.

"Not Snape!" Neville cried, pushing back from the table and almost overturning his chair.

Harry smiled. "No. He's going to be too busy, too. Not that he wouldn't be full of interesting spells and hexes none of us have ever heard of. But Snape's going to be testifying in all the Death Eater trials, so he's out for the same reason I am." Harry chuckled under his breath, imagining Severus' face if Harry had put his name forward for the position.

Hannah's voice broke through the loud discussion. "What about someone who isn't a teacher? Not anymore?"

All eyes turned towards her. "You have a suggestion?"

"Well," she shrugged, "I'd heard from Professor Flitwick that Hagrid had returned, and that Professor Grubbly-Plank was leaving. Most of the students liked her, and my mum and she are good friends. She was an Auror before she was injured, you know?"

"No joke?" Ginny's eyes narrowed. "An ex-Auror - that would be great. Do you think she'd do it?"

"If Madam Abbott asked her," Harry said, making sure to hide his satisfaction. Wilhelmina Grubbly-Plank was exactly who he'd had in mind.

"But, Harry." Hermione leaned across the table earnestly. "Aren't you even going to come to the meetings?"

"Sure, I will," he promised easily. "As often as I can. I don't want you all to have that much fun without me. But," he made a face, "so much has changed. I've got a lot of time to make up for with my own studies, you know that, Hermione. I've been skiving off studying, trying to get ready for the big battle."

"That's true," she mused, lips pursed. "There are some study groups I'd suggest. Especially for charms and potions – you've got OWLs to think about this year."

"Speaking of potions," Harry started and then dropped his most important bit of news. 

The uproar at the announcement of his new Apprenticeship was loud and long, but, eventually, even Hermione admitted that it was certainly a good way to figure out if, under the tutelage of a teacher who wasn't insulting him constantly or threatening to turn him over to Voldemort any second, Harry could become at least adequate at potion-making.

"You are pants at it, chum," Ron stated, nodding solemnly.

Neville snorted. "He's not as bad as me." A gleam flickered in Neville's eyes. "Hey! Do you think you could teach me? I mean, after a while, when you've got it all sorted?"

"Oh, no," Harry groaned, good-naturedly, "I can just imagine this time next year. Instead of the DA, it'll be Remedial Potions with Harry."

The meeting broke up soon after, and Harry waited at the entrance with Ron and Hermione. Ginny hurried past with a wave, her hair flying, carefree. Harry kept his response to a smile. He found it only hurt a little, like the pain from a phantom limb lost long ago. Luna strolled down the hallway arm-in-arm with Hannah, inviting the Hufflepuff to her Ravenclaw study group meeting in the library. Neville had turned his back, shoulders tense, and walked slowly towards the glass wall and the picture of the Order of the Phoenix.

Before Harry could step towards him, Ron put a restraining hand on Harry's shoulder. "It's okay, mate. Let me."

Harry blinked at the image before him. Neville and Ron, his friends, well and strong, nearly grown men, now. Ron slipped up close beside the other boy and murmured something, pointing at the photograph. Neville nodded, hands in his pockets.

"I feel like we're intruding," Hermione whispered, slipping her hand into Harry's.

He squeezed it tight. "I don't think so." Blinking hard, Harry continued. "They're amazing, those two. So different, but the same underneath. Strong. Resilient. Their families have been at the heart of this fight for generations. Just like Hannah's. And Draco's."

"And yours," Hermione reminded him. 

"And mine," he agreed. "I guess it's time for all of us to find a new way. A new future."

Hermione's grip tightened. "It's a little scary. Aren't you scared?"

"Who, me?" Harry smiled into her worried gaze. "Nah. I'm a Gryffindor. We don't know the meaning of the word scared."

She clucked her tongue and nudged him with her shoulder. "Of course not."

Harry turned to face her, taking both her hands. "Imagine, Hermione. Imagine the future. Without Voldemort. Without the threat of Death Eaters taking over the government, the school. With the worst of them dead or locked away. What do you see yourself doing, years from now when we graduate? Can you imagine it? Because I can."

Her gaze grew distant. "I guess … I'd like to travel. To visit Victor Krum in Bulgaria. To go to the most magical historical places, like the pyramids. To study with the Eastern mages and learn Natural Magic." She came back to herself. "What about you?"

"Me?" He shook his head. "I think I'm hopeless."

"What does that mean?"

Harry imagined perfecting Nervus Potestas. Healing Remus. Frank and Alice Longbottom. All the others limping towards death with horrible diseases. "It means that," he began, tugging her towards the door, "I still want to save everyone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few more chapters now, to wrap up Harry's final acts at Hogwarts. For those of you still enjoying the story - thank you for your kind words and encouragement. For those who are disappointed in how Harry's story is wrapping up, well, I'm not exactly sorry as it's the story I intended to tell - a story of Harry's empathy and Draco's redemption. Of healing and going forward. As Harry said at the beginning, he was never intending to bring vengeance, or try to balance out all the wrongs done to him. With his Occlumency shields back, he's more the mature adult than the emotional, angry youth of his earlier days.


	40. Beginnings, Middles, and Ends

Harry arrived at the door to Dumbledore's office on the last stroke of the great Hogwarts's bell. It didn't toll death, or sorrow, or call warriors to battle. Not this time. Harry glanced up at the ceiling as if he could see through the stone walls to the bell tower. Although Harry no longer called Hogwarts his home, the stones and hallways, its sounds and scents, would always call to him. Welcome him. In this life or the other.

"Come in, my boy."

He smiled at the familiar greeting, the bitterness and irritation of the last few days no longer front and center but drifting to the edges of his being. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Headmaster."

Harry stood for a moment behind his usual chair, his gaze drifting from the tall cabinet of moving trinkets to the Sorting Hat on its high shelf; it settled fondly on Fawkes for a moment, and then moved on to regard the cabinet where Dumbledore's Pensieve waited. His childhood had centered around this room, this man. Since his birth – since a prophecy was made about him long before his birth – Albus Dumbledore had planned and plotted, had cast his webs far into the distance, in time and space, and laid out every step of Harry's life – and death.

The man himself, sitting calmly behind his desk, did not appear to be a daunting figure. Aged, his back stooped and his skin creased and crepey, Dumbledore's long grey hair and beard were thinning. His rose-colored robes were too bright, decorated here and there with comets and meteors that moved across the fabric, making him appear a silly old coot. But the blue eyes staring back at Harry over half-moon spectacles were bright with intelligence, perceptive, vigilant.

"We have quite a lot to discuss, Harry," the headmaster stated, "but I find myself unsure of where to begin." He pushed back from his desk and folded his hands in his lap.

"Beginnings are hard," Harry answered. " And endings. Mine were, anyway. Middles seem to roll along, taking care of themselves, somehow."

"You of all people know that is not true," Dumbledore chided. "Middles can be the most difficult times of all. Standing at the beginning – of a life, of an adventure, of a heart-stopping tragedy – one can often see the ending, out there in the distance. The moment of victory. The hoped-for happy ending. But, the pathway through the maze between here and there is fraught with danger. With side-tracks that distract, or dead-ends that frustrate, foes one did not anticipate, and friends whose sacrifices takes one's breath away." Dumbledore regarded him. "Your return, your defeat of Voldemort and your service to the ministry, to the Malfoys, among others, is a miracle, Harry. A gift. But," he lowered his chin and his eyes twinkled, just a little, "I'd be lying if I claimed it was completely welcome."

Harry nodded. "Sometimes – very rarely in my experience – we're given exactly what we want in a way we did not expect. Our reactions can be," he hunted for the right word, "intense."

"How very kind of you to say so." Dumbledore's hands tightened on his knees. "But you have always been kind, Harry. Kind to me. To others. Kind to Dudley Dursley, your childhood tormentor. Now, to Severus. To Draco Malfoy and his father. I have, through the years, patted myself on the back, given myself credit for many of your qualities - for your strength, your independence, your Gryffindor bravery and stubbornness. Wrongly so, of course." His steady voice was strained. "The qualities that define your being, those that make up your heart astound me. Your kindness. Your capacity to forgive."

"I've been told by many people that those are weaknesses," Harry murmured, remembering dark times, arguments, curses hurled between former friends.

Dumbledore leaned forward. "You realize the truth. The truth that I've spoken more than once, but that I never truly understood until now. Until your return laid all my careful plans to ruin as you stepped in and showed me a better way. A kinder way. A way to forge a new wizarding world built on mercy as well as justice." He lifted his hands and let them drop to his desk. "How many times have you been told that it is love that saved your life? And love that would finally be your best weapon against the darkness?"

"'Love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. To have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever.' You said that to me, years ago. Do you remember?"

Dumbledore did not speak, but Harry saw the reaction in his eyes. Back then, right at the Beginning, the headmaster had not been so careful with his words, so strategic with their every interaction. In Harry's first year, and even into his second, Dumbledore had not seen Tom Riddle looking back at him out of Harry's eyes. He'd seen a little boy who loved magic, who had friends and people who cared about him for the first time he could remember. Harry liked to believe that Dumbledore missed that child as much as Harry did.

"Memory is also a powerful thing," Harry continued, drawn towards Dumbledore's Pensieve cabinet. "It lets us relive happy times, reminds us of our failures, and gives us hope during our darkest hours. " He laid one hand against the silvered glass. "I had few memories of my parents before I arrived at Hogwarts. More feelings than anything else. The scent of my mother's hair. The sound of my dad's laugh. Warmth and love and the knowledge that I was cherished. Wanted."

He glanced at Dumbledore over his shoulder. "It was in the Mirror of Erised that I saw their faces for the first time. I never thanked you for that, did I?" He shook his head. "That's another thing that memory can do. It lets us look back and collect up all the scraps and dangling coincidences and tie them all up – connect them all like puzzle pieces."

After a comforting pat on the Pensieve cabinet, Harry moved back to Dumbledore's desk and took his seat.

"In my Beginning, I came to Hogwarts a blank slate – with no knowledge of my heritage. No clue about Voldemort or the Order, of Sirius or Severus, of the prophecy or how the wizarding world would see me. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived." He nodded. "I have you to thank for that."

Dumbledore frowned. "I did not expect you to thank me for keeping you –" he took a sharp breath and stopped.

"Blind? Ignorant?" Harry filled in the blanks with no bitterness. "With the assistance of my memories – the memory of two lives – I can only be grateful. Grateful that I did not come to Hogwarts filled with fear and dread, but with wonder. That every person I met could be a new friend or a new enemy – but that I would be the one to judge. My reactions to Ron, to Hermione, raised muggle, or to Draco Malfoy were without the long history of dark versus light throwing up preconceived notions of how I should behave." His lips quirked. "I didn't always judge rightly, but that was a gift, too. The gift of making my own mistakes."

Dumbledore's fingers fidgeted with the simple items on his desk. A quill. A dog-eared book. A pile of parchments. "I didn't – I couldn't let you continue that way, Harry."

"Oh, I'm aware of how you manipulated me. How you sent me off with my friends to have, well, I suppose I thought of them as adventures. Your strategies were masterful, cunning, and your planning superb. We were tried, challenged, spun head-first into danger but never broken. Our skills were honed, sharpened, and our friendship cemented deep."

"How, then, can you thank me?"

"I don't – not for my Middle. You were deceptive. Dishonest. You counted on my ignorance, my Gryffindor bravery, to propel me along the path you'd laid out. Your concern was not for me, not any longer, nor for any of my friends, but only for the greater good. Sirius. Remus. Ron and his family. Severus' regret and Hermione's mind and Neville's loyalty – you took it all, counted on it. You spread us across the chess board, willing to lose any and all of us if it got us to the End you'd foreseen."

Harry clenched his hands into fists, centering his growing tension there before the power that was building up behind his sternum could be released in a flash of nonverbal magic. He'd do no damage to the headmaster's office today. He'd throw no tantrums. Today was not about his anger, but about his future. About honesty that had been two lifetimes in coming.

"I traveled quite a bit in my former life. I met wizards and witches – and muggles – around the world. My research kept me moving and my innate curiosity rewarded me with new insights into man's behavior." Harry rubbed one hand across his mouth, still startled to find no growth of a beard, but soft, smooth skin. "I lived, for a time, within an American military base, among an Air Force squadron of wizards. They flew in aeroplanes – it was an amazing experience. While I was there, we spoke of the ethical dilemmas of secrecy. These men lived with many secrets – not just of their status as wizards, but of military operations and orders. They kept secrets, they said, because of the greater good." He stared into Dumbledore's stunned eyes. "I could only think of you."

"I saw the toll those secrets took on those good men. How their family lives were damaged; how they drew away from friends, from loved ones, because, alone, they would not be tempted to speak. Many used addictive potions, or alcohol. Or sought out other, less wholesome, ways to cope. And I learned. I learned that secrets are manipulative. Coercive. Corrosive." He frowned, remembering the airmen, their hearty laughter and deep friendships. The way their faces emptied of emotion, of any trace of the great hearts within them when someone brushed up against their secrets. "Secrets destroy men and wizards and cultures. They keep one side believing that they have the right of things – only they. They become the keepers of men's consciences. Make themselves responsible for others, as if they are the parents and the rest of the world children, likely to run out into traffic or put his fingers between the bars of the dragon's cage. Because, after all, they know better. And I learned, finally, that there is only one time when secrets can be good."

Dumbledore was pale, his eyes filled with the shadows of deep waters. "In war," he stated.

"Exactly." Harry drew in a deep breath to steady himself. "The first war, the first time Tom Riddle took on the identity of Lord Voldemort and sought to make himself ruler of all the wizarding world – that war never ended. It was not won when a child received a scar and Voldemort was routed. There was no victory that night in Godric's Hollow. Few people realized that. And those who did, who tried to get the ministry and others to understand the peril, they were called troublemakers and other much worse names. Accused of stirring up fear to give themselves power. So they – you and Severus and Minerva, the Weasleys, Remus Lupin, a few others – kept your secrets and fought on. The only way you knew how. You fought on, never forgetting that the other side, the Death Eaters and dark wizards, were fighting, too."

The silence that fell around them was not dark or awkward. It was not the eye of a storm, or the calm before the lightning. It felt more like a morning at the seaside, the unbroken sand running into the distance under a new dawn, smooth and polished by a night of crashing waves. Clean. Renewed. Eager for a child's running footprints, small fingers searching for shells, lovers walking arm in arm.

"I wish …" Dumbledore's words dropped off, a small splash in the pool of calm surrounding them.

"Yes," Harry answered. "Me, too."

The headmaster rose and circled the desk, his hands behind his back. The posture had always reminded Harry of a general surveying his troops.

"I have never known a time when we were not at war, Harry. I thought so, once, when I was a student. Before my eyes were opened. My dearest friend and I spoke long into the night about ethics, moral responsibilities, exchanged notions of philosophy, examined hypothetical circumstances. At least, I believed them to be hypothetical. But Gellart, obviously, felt otherwise."

"I make no excuses for my behavior, Harry. None would be sufficient, would they?" Dumbledore's smile was anything but amused. "Even looking back, with the help of memory – my own as well as those entrusted to me by others – I could not see another way to bring about the End we speak about." 

He stopped in front of his desk to face Harry. "After you returned, after you defeated Voldemort and sat there in that chair with his dead body hovering nearby, you asked me a question. I've been considering it since then."

Harry tilted his head, encouraging Dumbledore to continue.

"You wondered if I'd ever tried to find a way to rid you of the piece of Tom Riddle's soul that was lodged inside you." He pointed towards Harry's scar. "If I couldn't, with all my formidable magic, as you stated it, determine a way to sever the link without you having to die. You asked about my highest goal. Do you remember?"

"I remember," Harry murmured. 

"The answer is no. I did not. I did not search for a way to heal your scar or Tom's soul. But you already knew that."

Harry returned Dumbledore's gaze and remained silent.

"I understood, later, as I reflected on your return and my suddenly limited role in Voldemort's downfall, that my actions were utterly unforgiveable. My secrets and lies, my hoarding of information. And, yes, you were right again, my goal was the defeat of Voldemort at the expense of your life. That was my life's purpose – Voldemort's utter destruction. I believed your death, the death of a child, a boy who I'd raised to battle to be the final answer. And I made sure to forge you in fire until you could be broken at the precise moment to bring that about. I considered no other way, no other means, no other strategy. I believed in my secrets, you see, in my insights earned through Grindelwald's war. I did not let doubt – or love – stay my hand."

Dumbledore paused, a crease between his bushy eyebrows. "I did not believe there could be any better way."

"And, now?" Harry asked.

"Now?" Dumbledore raised his hands. "Now I am forced to look backward. To examine my memories as you've suggested." He nodded towards the Pensieve. "They are clearer than I'd like. And while I can trace the pattern of my thoughts and plans, fill in reasons for my actions and rationalizations for your hurts and trials, for Cedric Diggory's death and Sirius' long imprisonment, I am left to wonder what a better man would have done in my place."

Before Harry could reply, Dumbledore continued. "I won't ask you to forgive me, Harry. Nor will I consider forgiving myself."

Harry had known the truth for decades. But, hearing it now from Dumbledore's mouth healed a deep wound – and closed and sealed the book of Harry's childhood, the one he still paged through from time to time in his darkest hours. This – this wasn't about forgiveness. Harry agreed; he could not imagine forgiving the man before him. Understand him? Yes. And, most importantly, he could move on.

"Looking backward is well and good, but I've found that, finally, we must look forward." Harry rose to face the headmaster, one wizard, one adult to another. "And remember, it worked, didn't it? We," he gestured, encompassing Dumbledore and himself and the entire castle, "did it. In both timelines. In both, Voldemort died. His followers were destroyed. And I survived."

"The cost was high."

Harry nodded. "It always is, in war. Now," he went on, "there is only one thing left to do. One request I have. That you open your eyes to that better way. Here, in the present. That you see that things have changed. The war is over. The world has changed. It _can_ change. It can become a world of peace. Of mercy. Without a chess master guiding every move."

Dumbledore's gaze flicked between Harry's eyes, as if he sought a way in. One strong hand gripped Harry's shoulder. 

Harry's shields were strong again. "I have changed, Albus. I will step into this new future without your hands pushing and prodding me. You're still doing it – I know that. The truth wards. Sirius and Remus being lured out to Scotland. You've arranged it all to goad me into a future that you can understand. That resembles the plans I cast into ruin when I returned. One where Harry Potter remains yours." He gripped Dumbledore's wrist. "You must stop," he whispered.

Dumbledore closed his eyes. For another second, he held tight and then his hand dropped away from Harry's shoulder. When he opened his eyes, they were sparkling with tears. "My brother told me the same last night. He wasn't quite so … kind in his choice of words, of course."

"Aberforth is a wise man," Harry said with a smile.

"I'm beginning to realize that. He's made quite a few, let's call them suggestions, concerning changes. And I've been listening."

"Have you?" Relief made Harry's voice a little breathless.

Dumbledore's smile was bright. Blinding. "Would you like to hear about them? I'd love another wizard's reactions to some of the ideas. Such as releasing poor Professor Binns to his afterlife and acquiring a more … contemporary teacher for History of Magic. I am even considering teaching a few classes myself, you know, now that my time will not be so focused on other things." His features settled into solemn lines. "Now that I do not have a champion to train, or a spy to keep to my leash, or a Minister of Magic to confound at every opportunity so that he is completely ineffective and out of my way."

Harry barked a laugh. It was more than he'd expected Dumbledore to admit. "I'd love to see what you have planned," he answered.

"Oh, nothing quite so detailed as plans, Harry." The headmaster turned, one hand raised as if to settle on Harry's shoulder and ease him around the desk. Before he completed the gesture, Dumbledore frowned and drew his hand back as if burned. "I am sorry. I didn't think."

"Albus." Harry swallowed through a narrowed throat. "A hand stretched out in friendship, in camaraderie, is nothing like the tight grip of a tyrant."

The word made Dumbledore flinch. "It may be hard for you to tell the difference, I've had my grip on you for so long."

"I think I'll trust myself to be able to tell," Harry stated.

Dumbledore linked his fingers together, as if to restrain himself from touching, from prodding or poking. "Small changes," Dumbledore agreed. "Small changes, small steps will take us down a different path."

"They'll take us quite far, I think." Harry straightened and held out his right hand as he had to Severus Snape in Gringotts' Bank. "Harry Potter," he said with a half-smile. "Ex-Auror. Teacher. Headmaster. Widower. Alchemist. Lord Potter, actually. Potions' Apprentice to Severus Snape. And, of course, fifth-year student."

Dumbledore took Harry's hand in both of his. "Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Old dog struggling with new tricks, I'm afraid. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Potter. Do you have time to discuss a new curriculum I'm considering here at Hogwarts? I'm thinking of calling it, 'Current Events and Critical Thinking.'"

Harry laughed, pumping the other wizard's arm thoroughly. "'Critical Thinking?' I think Ron's head may explode. But, as long as I'm not forced to teach it, I'm all for it, sir."


	41. Epilogue

Severus tucked the last book into its slot in the large crate. He stepped back and muttered a spell, securing the top and wrapping the crate with rope. "Wingardium Leviosa." The crate hovered, and, at his wand's movement, glided out the door of his study and into his sitting room to join the others. They made an astounding pile. In fifteen years of teaching, of calling Hogwarts' castle his home, he had accumulated more than he thought.

Books. Parchments. Brewing equipment and ingredients. More sets of robes than he remembered purchasing; the clothes themselves took up an entire crate. He quirked his lips. It was hard to believe. Severus Snape, clothes horse. How Lily would have laughed.

He smiled. One last small case was all that was left to pack. It sat open on the counter between sitting room and kitchen, awaiting his attention. Mementos wrapped in soft bright cloth made it seem a treasure box filled with jewels. In a sense, it was. He fingered the bundles. Trinkets, notes, gifts from students, from Slytherin parents. Odds and ends that meant something to Severus but would raise eyebrows from anyone else.

"You didn't leave me much, you know," he said, breaking the silence. Lying on the counter he gazed fondly at the detritus of a woman's life. A friend's life. A few crumpled notes, some scribbled on pages torn from lined notebooks. A hair ribbon, dark green and fraying at both ends. A few photographs kept perfectly flat and seamless between the pages of the one book he'd never had the heart to return. A collection of poems by William Wordsworth. He picked up the small volume, the faux leather binding cracked and peeling. 

"Boys don't read poetry," he repeated along with his younger self. The memory came swiftly, without pain or guilt. Two children standing under a tree behind a small muggle village so long ago.

"That's your father talking, Sev," Lily had replied, a gleam in her eye.

She'd been right. The poet's words had been filled with images, images of trees and woods, of friendship and love, courage and remembrance. Vivid pictures of life. Reading it, Severus' soul had expanded, its cramped confines growing space for new ideas – for love of nature, love of friends, for fond memories and happy days. Severus had never outgrown his love of poetry - muggle or wizardly. Not since those days of hiding under his blanket with a smuggled torch, battery dying, and reading late into the night while his father staggered around the house, swearing muttered curses.

Severus picked up the photographs. Photographs of the two of them. Severus on a swing, his dark hair flying. Her eyes alight as he charmed the fallen leaves to dance around her head. Two wide-eyed kids, bags in hand, in front of the Hogwarts Express. He swept them into a pile, leaving one to sit alone.

In the photograph, Lily's face was radiant, love shining from brilliant green eyes. No longer a child, she held her infant son close, the dark hair already wild, peeking from the top of a baby blanket. Lily had sent him the picture not long after Harry was born. Just the picture, nothing else. Severus remembered opening the owl post with shaking hands, afraid to find what was inside.

"You have your mother's eyes," he remembered saying. Sitting alone in the dusty remnants of his childhood home, Severus had turned the photograph over to read the message scrawled across the back.

"Harry James Potter. He's going to be a handful. Hope you are well. Love, Lily."

"Love, Lily," he repeated. A mother's love had saved little Harry a year later. And, somehow, that boy's love had been enough to save the world. To save Severus himself.

It was another miracle wrought by Potter's time-traveling hands. Another miracle to thank Potter for – the miracle of happy memories, memories of Lily Evans, Severus best friend and first and only love. Along with his freedom from Voldemort and from Dumbledore, his new enthusiasm for potions and brewing, his new career as Potions Master, Harry had given Severus back those joyful moments that had lit his dark and dusty life. For the first time, Severus could look back on their friendship and smile. He could remember the blessing she'd been in his life, even for the short time that life and fate and his own selfishness had allowed.

"You were right." Severus smiled down at the photograph. "Quite a handful. Smart. Brave. A natural on a broom. Jumping into trouble with both feet far too often. Like James. But, happily, he is also much like you. Kind. Genuine. Forgiving. A gifted potion maker and a brilliant alchemist. He's a good man, Lily. You'd be proud."

He tapped the photographs into a pile and laid them on top of the contents of the case. "Sleep well, my friend," he murmured before closing and locking it. "Your son is safe. I'll do my best to keep him that way. As always."

With one last glance around his rooms, Severus left, closing the door behind him. "Apertius," he stated, touching the tip of his wand to the door, breaking every ward and trap he'd placed on it and watching the magic drift away in sparkling green embers.

He met Harry in the Entrance Hall. The charmed fireplace had vanished back into the wall and both doors were open to the warm air and summer sunshine. Harry had just returned from seeing his friends off to the Hogwarts Express, promising them all, Severus supposed, summer visits to the Weasley and Longbottom home, as well as a chance for Weasley and Granger and Longbottom and Lovegood - and Draco - to invade Severus and Harry's new home. Those six had been largely inseparable during the last six months, the children keeping close to Harry and Draco through all of the changes. They were good friends, Severus acknowledged. Loyal. Forgiving. Patient. Having one or two of them underfoot this summer would not be as tiresome as he'd once imagined.

He could always put them to work helping him unpack.

Longbottom had even managed to pass his Potions OWL. One eyebrow inching upward, Severus thought Harry and Draco might have had quite a bit to do with that.

The seemingly fifteen-year old's cheeks were pink, his lips pressed tight. Severus tipped his head in question as Harry met his gaze.

"Luna," he shrugged. "She says the strangest things sometimes. And insists on kissing me on the cheek as if I'm her favorite bachelor uncle."

"Hmf." Severus gripped the handle of his case in both hands, letting it hang down in front of him. "It could be worse. Don't think I haven't seen Miss Cho gaze longingly after you with sad, moist eyes. You've broken a teen-aged heart there, I believe."

Harry rolled his eyes, making him seem even younger. "She'll get over it. By the time school starts next year, she'll forget she ever had a crush on The Boy Who Lived."

"Memories of your past?"

"No, just a teacher's notion of how teen-aged girls, like butterflies, flit from flower to flower before making their choices." Harry twisted his fingers and a dozen bright blue butterflies streamed into the morning sun, leaving behind a hint of sweetness and the sound of girls' laughter.

"Speaking of The Boy Who Lived," Severus remarked, "I have not heard that title in weeks. Perhaps months. Your fame has dimmed, Harry."

"Thank all the stars in heaven," Harry sighed dramatically. He peered up at Severus, frowning. "Any news?"

"I thought we might make a stop on our way home to see for ourselves. Are you ready?"

Harry seemed to feel the weight of the question as much as Severus. Was he ready? Ready to turn his back on Hogwarts? To leave the fire in which each of their spirits were forged? To step out of his familiar past and into a solitary new life, without his friends around him?

Harry gestured and the trunk that had been lying in the shadows rose to hover in the air. He plucked his wizards robes from the top and put them on over his muggle clothing. "Dobby?"

The house elf appeared with a bang. "Is Master Harry ready?" He danced from foot to foot, his new outfit – an elf-sized version of a wizard's robe in maroon and slate, a stylized "P" over the left breast – making even the enthusiastic elf appear more dignified.

"Yes. Please take my trunk home."

_Home_. The word came so easily to Harry's lips. Severus nodded. It seemed they'd both made peace with their decision.

"Don't unpack it, I want to do that myself, please," Harry continued. "And see to it that Severus' belongings are transported to his side of the house."

"Without breakage or loss, if you please," Severus added, frowning at the much-too-happy house elf who would be joining them in service.

"Yes, sir, Master Potter. Master Snape." Dobby clicked his fingers and Harry's trunk disappeared along with the grinning elf.

"I believe Dobby is quite pleased with his change in status."

"Well," Harry patted his sleeve, assuring himself that his wand was secure, "his status hasn't really changed. He's still a free elf, but, if it makes him happy to consider himself one of my household, a Potter family elf, I'm not going to argue with him."

"Arguing with a house elf leads only to headaches." Severus nodded. "By the way, I had forgotten to ask about Kreacher, the Black family elf. With Black elsewhere for the moment, has anyone thought to check on the thing?"

Trotting down the castle's stairs at Severus' side, Harry grunted in acknowledgment. "Believe it or not, Aberforth has taken Kreacher on. Two forgotten misfits of the wizarding world, he calls them. If you can believe it, he's attempting to rehabilitate the elf."

"I wish him joy in the endeavor, but, if anyone can do the impossible – " Severus' words tapered off.

" – a Dumbledore can," Harry finished the thought, chuckling. 

As they strode to edge of the Apparition barrier, Harry's hands moved restlessly, as if he were struggling with something.

"I think Dumbledore's new class has worked out well. What do you think?"

Severus immediately understood Harry's difficulty. "I believe the results have been favorable. Or, perhaps I should say, they will prove to be favorable in the long run. Is Miss Granger still …" he fought for diplomatic words.

"Still completely unable to separate her emotions from any discussion? Yes, she's still angry. Taking every argument personally. I don't really understand it," Harry continued, "Hermione is brilliant, she can learn spells and hexes far faster than anyone else I've ever met in either life. But philosophical discussions of right and wrong, morals and ethical dilemmas – they wind her up so tight she can barely speak coherently."

Over the past six months, Harry had told Severus much of the future – Harry's future in the timeline that was not and would never be. Bit by bit, Harry had lost much of his anxiety over the wizarding world's rough attempts at justice for Voldemort's Death Eaters. He'd seen with his own eyes the current Wizengamot's judgment brought against Lucius Malfoy – the merciful binding of the wizard's powers and his banishment, with his wife, to live out his life as a muggle on the western shores of Scotland. How Longbottom – of all people – had asked his grandmother to become guardian to a much-changed Draco Malfoy until he turned seventeen and the two pure-bloods developing friendship. He'd read of Shacklebolt's reforms at the ministry, the election of a Board of Ministers who would oversee new laws and would study old, outdated restrictions. Only one aspect of the Harry's past future remained a constant worry.

"It is not Miss Granger's intellect that is smothering her ability to thrive amid open and free discussions, Harry, it is her heart," Severus said.

Harry stopped to face him. "I think you're right, but I don't know why."

"Because," Severus set one hand on Harry's shoulder, "Miss Granger cannot discuss such things as empathy for our enemies, mercy to those who have committed horrific crimes, or the concept of seeing history from another's perspective without certain faces rising up in her mind's eye. A little girl, whose only crime was to be lonely. Myrtle Warren. The Riddle family – unkind, arrogant, yes, but not deserving of their fate. Other faces are even more close to her heart. James and Lily Potter. Frank and Alice Longbottom. Cedric Diggory. Your face especially, Harry, looms quite large in her memory." He shook his head. "Do not question why your best friend cannot sit quietly and talk about theoretical situations or that she is so fiercely dedicated to defending good and doing right. Be grateful, instead, that she is listening, that she is struggling to understand her own reactions to the concepts Dumbledore is raising."

"I – I'll try," Harry answered.

Severus nodded sharply. "Have faith, too, in your other friends. In the Weasley boy's patience. He is far more remarkable a character than I imagined." Severus had no trouble admitting that Ronald Weasley contained a formidable magical core – he would go far. "And I have found Miss Lovegood's 'strange comments' effective in opening minds to see amazing possibilities."

The two continued. When they reached the edge of the castle's wards, Severus held out his arm. Harry took it with a groan.

"One more year," he muttered.

They appeared outside the gates of the Tonks mansion, the wards there flaring bright red and green before they recognized the two wizards' magical signatures. As the gates swung open, a slim figured appeared in the open door of the house. Rushing towards them, only the bright mop of hair, changing color from green to blue to purple to pink, identified Tonks.

She was shouting. Laughing. Falling into Severus' arms, breathless, Tonks shook him.

"It worked – oh, it worked! You have to come! Come, come and see! It worked!"

Severus found tears on his face – and Harry's – that matched hers. They moved in a staggering clump of arms and legs into the mansion and up the stairs to what had once been a locked ward. Beyond the open door, Remus Lupin stood, his back straight, healthy, joyful.

"Last night –" Harry stammered. "It was –"

"The full moon," Lupin said. He lifted both arms out to his sides and threw his head back, as if he would howl. "Last night was the full moon, Harry. I – I didn't –" The grin on the wizard's face crumpled and he rushed to embrace the boy, Tonks unable to stop herself from latching on tight. "You've done it," Lupin cried, laughing. "Great Merlin, you've done it."

Severus blinked, taking one step backward to allow the trio to vent their anxious joy, their desperate relief. A moment later and he was dragged into the embrace, by whom, he couldn't tell.

"We've done it, Severus. We've done it." Harry's young face was shining, his green eyes alight.

"You've done it, Harry," Severus replied, his voice shaking. "And this, this is only the beginning."

From "Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tinturn Abbey" ~ Wordsworth  
"Therefore let the moon  
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;  
And let the misty mountain winds be free  
To blow against thee: and in after years,  
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured  
Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind  
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,  
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place  
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! Then,  
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,  
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts  
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for my kind acceptance into the HP fandom. To Athy, once again, for allowing me to take over her story, to my faithful readers, commenters and kudo-ers (?) for keeping me going. I'll leave Harry and Severus here to walk into their futures without the prying eyes of the writer following them. I'll also leave the students, Ron, Neville, Luna, and Draco and the rest to help Hermione see from others' perspectives. I'll leave Aberforth to wrangle Albus, sit on him if need be, to keep him in check. And I'll leave Remus healed and Sirius well on the way to the same. And, hopefully, James and Lily will rest in peace.


End file.
